


Paranoia

by laughingCat (nekobakaz)



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Author has mental issues, Dystopia, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mild Language, Other, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Potentially Unreliable Narrator, Rebellion, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Students, University, Unreliable Narrator, Work In Progress, narrator has mental issues, one day I will finish this, student protestors, they are watching you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekobakaz/pseuds/laughingCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear Diary, I don't know whether anyone will read this. But I hope maybe this will survive. Oh gentle reader, here lies my testament, my witness to the great fight against the state. Marcy, my mercy, has been taken.  Freedom is a lie.  Religion is dead. Our most educated students are prosecuted for the pursuit of knowledge.  Be careful what you read, their eyes are everywhere.  And who am I?  I am Paranoia.  I was promised. Hush little one, I am watching as well.  The war is far from over. For from on high, we have been delivered a saviour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Paranoia. No. It's not always going to make sense. I started writing Paranoia in 2006, literally as it says in the opening sentence, sitting in class staring out the window. I saw a white van driving through the university campus, and a muse poked me. Before that, I had been doodling in a Sudoku puzzle book. The class, if you want to know, was English, Culture and Anarchy, or, as I called it, Victorian Lit: Culture vs Anarchy (Anarchy won, btw). 
> 
> Do I have experience with mental health? Short answer, yes. More story related, in high school, I had a puberty-reaction to medication which resulted to a good spell of paranoia and psychosis. Thankfully, after medication adjustment and puberty went away, so did the paranoia and psychosis. But it means I have some experience that I'm using for this. 
> 
> I'm posting what I wrote in 2006. I haven't really written anything on Paranoia since then, cause getting into the Paranoia head space is not fun. I do know the ending to it, and do plan to poke at it at some point. But you have been warned in advanced. 
> 
> Also, no. No details. No name. No gender. No orientation. No identity. Nothing. Narrator is a blank, who may or may not be unreliable, or possibly insane, or even possibly BOTH! Just because it's in your head doesn't mean it's not true. Just because you're insane doesn't mean you can't be telling the truth. Remember that. 
> 
> Also, some of the places and people HAVE been inspired by real places and people. They know who they are. 
> 
> Anyways, read and enjoy!

I was in the middle of class, idly looking out the window between scribbles, when I saw the vans pull up. These were not the regular vans, to deliver goods around the city from the distribution center, but purposeful patrol vans. They circle in pairs, seeming to make the population nervous while secretly we giggle at their insecurity. 

Usually they make themselves busy by circling and duty done, leave. However, these vans were different; they were real. 

For once, I close my book and follow the crowd out of the building when the lecture was done. They were there, the patrolmen at the doors, with pictures in their gloved hands, scanning faces. They had come at a bad time, when all the classes end and the halls are choked with the press of bodies and relentless current. But they were there. 

For once, I don't look around, don't try to catch people's eyes and share knowing smiles. I don't look. I keep my face down and pray it isn't me on those photographs; it isn't me they're looking for, I'm not that important. I was promised. Now I remember that promises are dust and spit and I start to sweat in the cold fall air and I'm pushed right next to one of them and involuntary I look up and into his eyes, a glance or two and then I'm through. Collectively, we sigh with relief, us on the other side. But unlike the other less guilty, I haven't done nothing wrong. 

As usual, the media have gathered, having tapped the wires and radios. Some of them, I'm sure, know about the raids before the patrolmen get their orders for the day. In the papers they call it 'raiding the Ivory Tower', as if we were innocent students with our noses in our books and heads in the clouds. As if we all didn't know that it is the students that are the most dangerous, with our research and independence to think differently and always asking “why?” 

For me, it is a matter of curiosity. I have always wanted to visit the Great Divide, to stand in the land from where the water flows. I wonder whether it is a land where the world is open to the sky across the border. I have always been drawn to where the earth reaches for the sky, but forever shall not meet, and I have always returned to the wide open lands under the sky, with rolling hills and forever shadows to hide in. Another place to slip into and cover my head. 

Still shaken, I feel the need to move and use my card to catch the wrong bus. I watch the city pass and by the time I finally reach my apartment, the news has reached my housemates and they have the feed on in the living room. As I walk in, the media posts the person caught in the raid and I could see their shoulders relax. 

It was Marcy, I saw, who was taken away. Marcy, who sat with me in class till yesterday and always had a smile and sweet smell. Marcy, who in the rumours that originated from nowhere and were therefore always true, was one of the leaders of student non-violent protest groups. Marcy, for whom the chat channels were alive with outrage. Marcy, who was taken away for being a threat to a strong country. 

I was promised, Marcy said once, that no matter what, I'll move forward. I'll be a martyr for the cause; I'll make a difference. Now I see Marcy's face on the screen, as Marcy's real name and life is dug up illegally and shown for all the world to see. This is Marcy, kind, gentle Marcy, the dreamer, the innocent, the idealist, the non-violent activist. This is Marcy, the saint, a danger to the nations. What power do dreams have, when they are seen so dangerous? 

This is Marcy, my friend, a picture with me, half hidden in the background, a brief glimpse of captured time and light. Who promised Marcy, and who made it real? I was promised that my face and my name would never be held in a patrolman's hands. I was promised, but who was it that promised me? 

The chattering of digital voices crying in soundless protest what ought to be my loud wailing. Who are these faceless people, who care so much about a stranger? My hand reaches for the keyboard, to join in, to finally be visible, to be seen, to take the same reckless risks as the others, to be one of those that pushes and will not be silent and makes a difference. 

But before my hand reaches the keys, a window, both in my mind and on the screen appears, with the same words typed out so intimately impersonal. Remember, you are promised. It echoes in me, and that tiny little part of everyone agrees it's better not to get involved, it's better to write the paper that's due tomorrow. My hand hovers; my mind is unsure. 

I see the picture again, so hastily posted and snatched away on the screen. My face seems to linger, an afterimage of intent. It wasn't a released photograph; it was taken secretly from Marcy's file. It was in the patrolman's files of investigation, the poster stated, boasting a little on how they stole the picture. Maybe the patrolmen are looking for some of these people. Maybe they're looking for me. 

As I type the mindless exercise, I can imagine the patrolmen's van flying out of their headquarters and down the streets, cutting off the public paths and siren flashing silently. Always be watchful, for the seemingly harmless can be the most dangerous. Appearances are deceiving; people are deceitful. Of all Marcy's associates, I am the most quiet and harmless, therefore I am the most dangerous. 

I imagine them talking over my profile: sits with Marcy in class, goes to Marcy's study group, attracts little attention, politically silent, a scholarly student on the sidelines, watching and knowing too much. Knowledge is power, and power corrupts, therefore the watcher is most dangerous, to themselves and to the good of everyone. I wonder whether they really believe that, or have they had it drilled into them since it was first decided what their careers would be as they lay defenceless in their cribs. 

But then, does it matter? They are coming to take me away. I imagine that this is a crackdown, a purge, the one we were waiting for and dreading in our hideyholes and it's finally happening and that any moment the patrolmen will knock on the door and the promise will be broken, and...

A knock on my door makes me stop and refuse an offer of a drink from my housemates, to fortify and maybe ease my nerves. There is no heavy boots in the hall. There is no sharp pounding on the door, no demand of entry to which me and my housemates refuse, no burst of the door and seizing hands, no confiscation of discriminating items and arrests and reading of rights and pushing into vans and great walls and bars and filtered light. Apparently, I'm not so important for that. 

The exercise is wasted on me, as I move through the motions. I've reached the point where I don't need to think about it, not here, not in my home, my safe bundle of walls and wide windows and buried blankets and it still isn't high enough. The pull of the sky is strong, but the ground and gravity makes the laws here and keep their captives jealously. I fear that I'd have to become insubstantial to float free. I feel restless and longing to obey the summons. But if I did that, I wouldn't be myself. I wouldn't know how to make myself solid again. 

Maybe that will be my fall. I am one of the few, who believe in both the good and evil in people, in free will and destiny and sin, in reincarnation and in heaven, in acts of kindness and in saved by grace, in remaining pure and in experiencing the world in all its filth. I embrace it all, as a truth of itself, from culture and time and language and belief and nations. I am both a lying hypocrite and a truthful zealot, a devil and a saint. All in time. 

How do I do this and not be mad? There are no labels except those we make, and those are unfitting. A person cannot be limited by a word and a definition. Words are false; speaking is no communication, only interaction. The soul cannot be taken apart and examined under a microscope and easily defined. It is more real than real, and not limited. So people should not be limited. All are mine. 

Medically, they have a term for me, and little white pills to ease my diagnosed suffering, with a lock on my windowed door and soundproof walls to soften my screams. Except, I do not scream, or tear at my hair, or rant nonsense, or bash or scratch or silently weep, or look blankly into space as I drift from the scientific and lawfully real world. I have no symptoms of disease, and so I am overlooked. We are both suspicious and so trusting, despite our creeds. 

Statistics say that a person is recorded between thirty to forty times a day, through security cameras and careless tourist photographs and the like. Officially. Unofficially, the number is much higher, but then, they don't want people to know that. It leaves for some room to breathe, some room to slip up. I could have told Marcy about the raid today, and warned the rest, but it wouldn't have done any good. Marcy wouldn't have run, too much pride. Marcy was promised. I was promised too. 

I am the silent eyes behind the secret watching lens, seeping knowledge from the source, the wound, and creating my own. I am dangerous, silent and watchful, with unsure knowledge that could topple empires and end wars, and unclear motivations of what I will do next. I should be plucked at the stem, while still in the bud before I can bloom and bare my thorns. 

How shall I do that? How shall I rise up and sink deep into flesh and draw blood? How shall I make my presence known? How shall I use all this knowledge? Or should I remain silent, watching eyes, the kind that children wished would come on the eve of winter holidays and bring presents and goodies? But that would be unfair and disrespectful to the jolly man in red, the babe in the cradle and the tradition of the temple. How good it was to believe in such things. But I am not such a person to give myself to poverty, or to martyrdom with a gentle smile on my face. But I do not like this anymore, to sit here idly, while others stand and proudly fall. This watcher can remain silent no more. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

My nails clicked as I tapped them on the desk, and I spared them a look. They were getting too long again; I'd have to cut them short, blunt and almost bleeding. If I keep them too long, they will break with all the writing and typing I do, not to mention get in the way of holding my pen. Sometimes they press into my skin, seeking blood. My body is vampiric that way. Or would it be cannibalistic? 

The professor's droning voice caught my attention again, and once again I tried to concentrate on his words. Marcy made this so much easier, Marcy who knew exactly how to explain to me and never failed to sit next to me. But now Marcy is gone. The last time I saw Marcy, in the flesh, was two days ago, in this classroom, sitting in that now empty seat and writing clear neat notes in a precise hand. Now I have to make do with my own scratching hand, clawing the letters out of the air and pressing them into the paper. I could have gotten myself a slim shiny laptop, or one of those keyboards with memory, to flash my hands over. But my money is for other things, and so I sit with my paper and pen. 

In class, one of the surest way to identify an activist or a supporter is the materials a person uses for taking notes. We refuse to use the popular gadgets of the time, instead preferring the old, reliable method of recycled paper and non-toxic ink. Head and shoulders hunched over the little folding desk, I scratch my silent rejection for all the world, or at least the class, to see. The class ends, and I am still here. 

I managed to dance with the administration and got two classes in a row in the same lecture room. Marcy had been unable to keep up with the steps, and laughingly declined to receive instruction from me. It's okay, ever practical Marcy had said, I don't need that class anyways. I take it because I'm curious, not because I need it. I am usually alone in the class, with other students giving me a one seat gap between me and them. I think that they think my pen and paper will rub off on them and infect them with the desire to be bold and be truly different. Most students remind me of secondary school, the time of adolescence, where we were not quite adults and not quite children, and now we have just come into adulthood when we have just gotten used to adolescence. We're not sure our flimsy wings will hold us when we fly. 

 

However, independence suits me nicely, and I've barely felt the uncertainty and wobbly legs my peers often do. I have always been promised. They have no such security, and so they keep their distance. Usually. The person who sat down beside me obviously didn't feel that way. And he looked at me, his eyes looking straight at me as I glance at his face, at the intruder in my space, the alien in my world. He looks at me, and tries to pierce my soul. He looks at me. 

“You usually sit with Marcy,” he stated, as if it were a truthful fact, like birds fly and pigs don't. I could hardly deny it, and so agreed. He used the name Marcy, his lips smoothing the name into something like Mercy, the way Marcy liked it to be pronounced. I felt a spark of jealousy; he could speak Marcy's name while I stumbled over it into something strange. I turned it into a joke, I know mercy. 

Something in his laugh reminded me of Marcy, a carefree and light with no harm feelings. No wait, there was a difference; his held a sharp splitter of steel, carefully cradled in thick satin. And I wonder, is it tempered, or is it a brittle metal, to shatter when it finally strikes in its first battle.

“You know Marcy, and yet you sit alone.” I have always sat alone, and saw no reason why I should be asked about it, or any reason why I should change my habits. “Come sit with us sometime. This is a time where we should stand together.” I have never actually stood. I suppose that he took me for a supporter, a quiet activist who signs the petitions and goes on the walks and rallies, and in other words provides the support for a movement. He did not know the nature of our relationship, but then few do, including me. 

I'm pretty sure that I showed reluctance, and yet he continued. “What are you doing after class? Are you busy?” After class? I ride the bus, losing myself on the circuits and routes until I feel the words on the page starting to make sense and coming back in a free fall to my physical body, after I had replaced the dust and dirt of the world in my veins with the flow of air and clouds and washed myself clean in the water before it falls into rain. I don't tell people about that, they like to give me those little pills that make it harder to think for myself. 

And yet, I found myself surrounded by students in the busy cafeteria, at a round table full of people I remembered from meets and study groups and vaguely from the occasional march. They were being open with their concern, discussing the likelihood of Marcy being released. I doubted that would happen, the patrolmen don't like making mistakes. Oh, but these people of Marcy's, they still had the innocent arrogance of adolescence, believing in their own invulnerability. Marcy still lived to them. They didn't realize that very few were returned after a raid. 

However, their presence here relieved me. There had been no purge, and only Marcy was taken. It was thought that the movement was dead with the cutting of the head. It is a risk, for there might be someone who can fill the gap. I wonder whether any of Marcy's people had the strength to stand in Marcy's stead. It would be interesting to see who tried. 

I am not a vicious person, nor a jealous person, or a very judgemental person. Arrogance may be a fault I still harbour, and I will not let a weak puppet inherit Marcy's position. I may not have been an active part of this movement, but I know the effects. Marcy's memory will not be tainted. 

“You act as if Marcy is dead,” a sharp girl, indeed, to notice how I referred to Marcy in the past. Simply, Marcy is dead to me. Although publicly her case will be debated and protested and might bring some change, Marcy will not stand in front of me again, or sit with me in class, giggling over the hidden meanings in the professor's words. An activist taken in a public raid disappears. No one on the outside has ever seen any of them again, other than in pictures. This is a fact that all of us in the leadership have acknowledged, and is a reality that we are willing to risk. These soft people of Marcy's court still cling to the belief that bad things do not happen to good people. To them, Marcy's arrest is a step to increase awareness of their cause. 

Finally, the question comes. I have not introduced myself to them, including the one who sought me out in class. So I tell them my carefully constructed name, the alias codename for the outer circle, leaving my other name secret. Part of the problem that the patrolmen have is that we never use our real names, using alias's that lead to other alias's in a system that makes us partially safe, and differs us from the simple lone stumbler that is snatched up in the jaws of authority. However, my codenames are particular, recognised by any leader in a group. If any of them had known anything, they would have apologised and let me sit silently for as long as I pleased. They did not. 

They asked the second question, the one that usually is considered rude and shows how close to the social sphere they still cling. I have had many people try to guess and question and define my gender, my work, my purpose to life. There are a few theories about any one of my alias, and I don't care. I don't see how any of it is anyone's business but my own. I refuse to be defined and limited by words, and I refuse to define and limit anyone else with labels. They are merely descriptive, not who I am. And I tell them so. 

Marcy would have laughed in their faces, but then, Marcy always did understand at least in part my reasoning. A name is just a name, Marcy would tell these people, for us to keep each other apart and to know who we are addressing. Except for those true names, that mean nothing but what you are. Those are the ones you keep in your heart, never to leave your lips. I would have said that most people don't even know their true names, as it is what keeps you from being lost inside, and so it is sacred. Marcy would have asked me what kind of drugs I'm on. 

I don't take any drugs, or any medication unless I'm sick with something. So none of those pills the doctors seem so keen on giving for most problems. Marcy understood that, but liked to joke about it. I don't usually mind, as long as it's obviously a joke coming from a friend. I wonder whether I have too few friends, sometimes on those nights where I sit in front of my screen, monitoring the chatter of people on the channels and the movements of the crowds, and the wanderings of the patrolmen. 

These people, they only think that they knew Marcy. I cannot acknowledge any claim any of them have. Despite our brief encounters, we shared a relationship that outdates theirs. It is pure. But they insist on their questions, who I am, where I'm from, what I do, my thoughts. My thoughts are the last thing they would really want to know, but they want to know anyways. What can I tell them? 

Then, half a second of insight and enlightenment: they're looking for a new leader, and they're looking for one in me! I almost burst out laughing. I don't. But I do interrupt, and stand. I will not be a puppet leader for them, nor will I take Marcy's place. It would disrespect a good honest name. Marcy is the one to work in the spotlight, I am the one that works in the shadows. No, it would be no good for me to take part in their cause, not now, with the sharp pain of memory so clear and fresh. 

I leave, walking silently and calmly to the door. As I do, I spot a camera in the corner, faithfully recording the innocent movements of students and the suspiciousness of myself. I raise my eyes and stare directly into the lens, as if daring the person behind the screen, the singular eye that never tires. I move my lips, mouthing a word, two words, three. While the person watching may see the event, according to the archive, this meeting never happened. Eyes behind eyes, programs within programs. At least, I can shield the poor simple fools for a little while, before they are sought out like Marcy. I'll give them time, to regroup and think and maybe stand strong in Marcy's name, remember what Marcy had done for them. For Marcy's sake, I do this.


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe I'm going soft; usually I don't care about these followers of shepherds, these sheep. It's been long time past since they ought to be thinking for themselves. But then, I remember, and I keep my peace. 

Years before Marcy, I was a cold hearted bastard, who gave no slack for anyone. It's arguable that I haven't changed, but it's part of humanity's nature to change, to evolve, to become something else. And so, I'm changed. I'm no longer the jerk who wouldn't give anyone the time of day, who didn't care what happened, so much that it didn't bother me. The world could end, and I wouldn't care. Didn't care, then. That was the time of whispers, when I'd float unthinkingly along the circuits and software, listening to random snatches of conversation, the immature angst of youth, the bitter complaints of the old. To me, the world deserved to be burned, to break and be destroyed, and I hated anyone who seemed oblivious to corruption in the world and in themselves. 

I silently screamed across the wires, anonymous messages entering mailboxes and invading chat rooms across the nation, and no one seemed to notice. I was alone in my cold rage of the world. And yet, I caught someone's eye. They must have seen how I was becoming a quiet storm inside, gradually building to a destructive force about to strike out, blindly, wildly, unthinking. They did nothing, except to tap me on the shoulder, and let me know about the potential corruption in my own self. They sent me Marcy, and I suspect, they promised. 

I met Marcy, kind, strong Marcy, Marcy with a firm hand, Marcy with a gentle touch and caring soft eyes, soft skin and warm embrace. Marcy, whom the world was imperfect, and thus beautiful. Marcy, to whom everyone is made equal in uniqueness, who could find no fault in the mistakes of humans, who understood people's hearts. Marcy, who could not stand suffering when it could be avoided. Marcy, who's heart burned with fire and justice, who's hands soothed the heart, and who's head knew the difference. Marcy, who in a single touch, became my saint, my angel. 

I would not be the person I am today without Marcy. It seems ironic, when I pride myself in being independent and self-controlled, that at one point, I needed someone to tell me to stop. But because of that once time instance, I came into focus, and the world snapped clear. I became promised, and quietly reprogrammed. I'm certain that the patrolmen were very appreciative of it. 

However, I owe Marcy, and as I walk back to my apartment, I wonder what can I do that would be worthy repayment. My watching wires run deep and true, and could aid in any one movement of the time. But I feel no attachment to any, not even to the cause that Marcy claimed to fight. Each is both worthy and unworthy of my gift. So I ask, what would Marcy want? 

I imagine Marcy's smile. I want the world to change, Marcy had told me once. I want to sing any song I want without risk of arrest, to print any words on a page without being silenced, to learn what I want without being hidden away, to ask questions without a noose around my neck. So what you want is freedom in thought, I had said. Marcy's head shook, I am already free, because I can think, it is those who don't that are not free. But there is slavery in ignorance, and there is slavery in knowledge, just as ignorance is bliss and with knowledge comes enlightenment. What I what is freedom to feel, to express, without the risk of responsibility. I thought about it, and it did make sense.

I can almost see the plan that was in Marcy's incredible mind. Marcy believed in working small, in working up to the big problem. Marcy was promised, Marcy is the secret martyr working ever so carefully to make a difference in the world. To make a difference... 

I ponder those words as I climb the steps, the wood almost creaking under my weight no matter how soft I stepped. Marcy could make the wood make nary a sound, the door to open smooth and slip into my room. How someone that strong and heavy could do so is beyond me. I am a wisp in the wind, and the world groans and moans at my existence, as if I am something to be endured, until I am no longer there and can no longer bother it. 

The world resents every moment it gives me, the earth beneath my feet, the food on my plate, the roof over my head. If it was my choice, I would live as high as I could, on the level of clouds, to look down at the world with benevolence, to gently correct the innocent children below. However, the hands of those above are too big for those on the ground, and often what is gentle can be seen as rough. Maybe I'll let the children learn from their mistakes. It would be good for them. 

But there is change to be had, and there are tools in my hands, even if I know how to use them, it is what to use them on that confuses me and makes me stop to think. I feel it then, the tight suffocating force around my neck, squeezing and compressing, causing me to choke. Barriers appear before me in front of my eyes, surrounding all around me, closing in, driving at me, guiding me, chanting and urging. Submit, submit, conform, conform. Just surrender. Darkness gathers on the edges, deep black and invitingly, like an old friend coming to take me back into it's arms, to cradle me to an unthinking bliss. It reaches around as I struggle with my own breath, my fingers fumbling with tight strings on my throat, unable to move, to run, to fight, to flee. Fear seeps from the walls and from the air, choking what little air is available, and slipping on the floor, the dark lunges forward -- 

I open my eyes, and angrily shake away the sharp fragments of memory. Some places are too alive for my mind, and seeps in unaware. I let my own imagination fuel it. It irks me that I would be so weak. I am a silent watcher, strong because of my own conviction in what I do is what I am supposed to be doing. And now, I am unsure, seeking for a change, a crack that lets in the walls from outside. It reminds me of the difference between me and the rest of the population. I am not limited by limits. I am not an island. 

I do not talk to my housemates. This is usual, as I rarely talk to them at all, except for the occasional drink that loosens their tongues and grants them the freedom to truly talk. It may be the substance, but I find that they are more themselves with a few careful drinks than they are awake in their fears. They know only a little of who I am, and they have their guesses, and all of them are harmless. 

I stand at the window, watching the people below, and for a few moments, I forget what I know. People walk along the streets, breathing in clean air, free from most pollutions and smog, with clear and pure skin of all colors. There may be a small quick smile here, and quiet giggle there, but there are no open tears, no crying children or hungry people on a dirty street. A cough is quickly cured, a cut quickly bandaged. Grey, white and silver hair is displayed proudly, a symbol of respect, winkles a mark of wisdom, smooth young skin the indication of a long full life to live. As the winter months approach, more people are bundled up, some with well worn brightly coloured scarves and mittens to keep them people and not disappear into the shadows of the long nights. Each person works towards their warm and tidy homes, with plenty of food in their bellies, a strong roof over their heads and a cozy bed. At holidays, they'll bring out the sparklers, brave the cold or heat, wave banners and flags, sing rousing, heartfelt songs, and eat sweet things. In times of a few extra coins, there'll be a movie for the family, a new toy for the children, new dresses and shiny gadgets. 

Ignorance can be bliss, I muse, watching as every once in a while someone glances with a slight frown at the cameras in the corners, the speakers on the walls, the news vids on the buildings. However, people are not made blind, and I know that everyone with half a wit knows that there is something wrong with the picture. Once a person asked me whether it was true, that a child had to be approved from birth to get into the specialized schools. I asked him whether he had ever heard of a child being accepted outside of the rumoured initial age group. His silence was my answer. 

It's good to know things, and it's a good feeling to see those things being proven in every day life. I am quite certain that many people everywhere know bits and pieces of what I know. What I know? I know there are more than just cameras on the corners, there are radio lines in rooms, and random sweeps of the streets to peek inside the houses and reports of people's private lives and figures and facts and new messages to announce based on those reports and the truth is we are all watched. For every outward camera, there are about ten to twenty more hidden cameras in the area. For each house, apartment, and building, there are approximately three to five radio feeds in each room, so that there's a better chance of picking something up during a sweep in any direction. On every phone line there is a tap, a computer scanning for spoken keywords, like the computer on the network, constantly alert, always vigilant for threatening behaviour. Every movement, every word, every keystroke, is watched. 

I am surprised. For once, I want to know why.  


	4. Chapter 4

A quick, short and loud cry from the other room. My name is yelled outloud. I wince. My name is yelled again, as if my name is not secret, as if the walls do not have ears, as if names do not have power. I am being summoned out of my sleep, to the other room, where my housemates clamour over the news feed. I am not very happy to be awaken so suddenly, so early, but apparently my housemates have deemed this too important enough to allow me to sleep. 

The face on the screen hits me, impossibly clear and real. Not even reality is so real. Marcy is speaking on the screen, saying words and sentences and apologies, those sweet lips and low voice trembling and I can't believe it. Marcy would never say those words. Marcy would never sound like that pathetic thing on the screen. Marcy would never apologise. 

The thing that looks like Marcy says it was a mistake, that it was mistaken, it had bad information that it got from a bad source, that it was part of a plot to destabilize the government. It was sorry, terribly sorry, for the trouble it caused the people following it, who believed in it, who gave everything to it and risked so much. But it was a mistake. 

I could feel the reaction of its words, in the chat rooms and newspapers and conversations and hushed, fearful whispers. They broke Marcy. They broke Marcy. Those of us who knew, look to each other with some doubt, a little less sure than before in our strength. They broke Marcy. They broke Marcy. They broke Marcy. 

No. 

I screamed, I wailed, I flooded, I crashed. That is not Marcy! Users on the chat rooms, on every server, on every network, suddenly sat back as their screens were filled with it marching down. That is not Marcy! That is not Marcy! Over the phone, in the static and between the silent spots in ghost words, an endless chant. That is not Marcy! That is not Marcy! The radios crackled and hissed, spat static and died under the flood of overlapping screams. That is not Marcy! That is not Marcy! Inboxes was filled with countless amounts of mail, each filled with the same words, over and over again, burned into the minds of reader. That is not Marcy! That is not Marcy! 

I reached back just in time, just before I cut the news feed with my rage, breaking through the false words and false face and vile sound. I retreated from the wires, leaving the chat rooms, the phone lines, the radio signals, alone. A silence might have descended, had the programs just picked up where they left off. A moment of confusion for the nation, a brief few moments of a phantom on the electric circuitry. This was the second time, and I came ever close to losing control. And I wondered whether I had really done it. I went back to bed. 

When I awoke, there was no mention of what happened. No record on the archives, no whisperings on the lines. There were no glitches in the system, no announcement from the government, no theories. I had erased myself, or else it had never happened; the memory is false. But the world would not ignore something that I did like that. I am the one that watches, never moving, and thus if I moved, everyone would know. Even I watch myself. And yet, I find myself unobserved. 

My hand reaches towards the keyboard to check the archives for the broadcast, when a window appears on the screen, magically summoned by my desires. It is the broadcast, the account in the archive being filled before my eyes. It is the fake Marcy. I check the time stamp; it's being played right now!

A cry from the other room, a voice from the news feed and I quickly leave my room before my name is said outloud. That name and sound that is both painful and sweet, harsh and smooth silk rubbing on bare skin, my name should never be spoken outloud, even without recording devices. I'm there, it's there, and there is no need for any other words. However... 

“That's not Marcy,” my fellow housemates state. They do not know Marcy, and yet they know, as if the face on the screen had been stained with accusations. They face the screen as if they had been told an obvious lie, like the sun does not set in the west, that snow grows from the ground and flowers fall from the sky. It is the silent hidden truth that any intelligent human knows. All people can think, therefore everyone knows! I am optimistic; I believe that one day all people everywhere will cry out the truth. I wait for that day. Until that time... I was promised, and I keep to that promise, despite the hypocritical nature of reality. Moloch is tolerate if I behave myself. 

Back in my room, a request arrives in my mailbox. A program I've prepared in advance scans the message, a digital guard checking the credentials of the sender. I have a long list of requirements for people to meet before I even consider either finding or releasing information. This request though, I have been watching this person for a while and merely waiting for her to realize her sources are not enough. 

It is also a question of how far a person will go to reach a goal, and how much that goal is worth. Will you trust a source that refuses to name itself, who refuses to act with the knowledge it has gained? Will you trust the faceless, the voiceless, the nameless, the eyeless, the bodiless? Far enough to ask for help from this mysterious unnamed source of unknown database with questionable ethnics. What kind of person quietly sits in the shadows, gaining countless knowledge from unhonest means, and freely offers information? What kind of person am I? 

I have a picture on my wall. I can't remember where I got it. Maybe I was given it as a child, to ponder as I grew and developed and think deep thoughts. Maybe I found it in the trash, an unwanted image to be taken away and destroyed until I rescued it from the junk and delivered it to treasure. Or maybe I bought it, some unthinking dull day, from the corner discount store just a few blocks over, for a small sum, pocket change, to simply fill my wall and block out the noise that is empty space. 

I wonder, how many people have heard the sound of silence, and how many more ever pause in their busy days to think about what is the sound of silence? To hear it, a person must go to an empty room, lock the door, turn off the phone, turn off the radio, the computer, the news feeds. Turn off the outside with its bustle and hustle and continual noise. Go to a place where you can not hear anything. And then, in that empty, lifeless place, listen. Strain yourself to hear, something, everything, anything. Be desperate to hear a pin drop, the rustle of leaves, the sound of breathing, shoes on the floor. 

And it begins. It is screaming pain, self-made feedback from straining for life, and it blocks out and overwhelms till you are deafened by it. It is static in your ear, coming from everywhere and no where, ready to drive you insane till you beat your head against the wall in order to get it to stop. 

Empty spaces are like that. There should be no such thing as a vacuum, not in existence. Vacuum is nothing, and nothing cannot exist, because if it exists, it wouldn't be nothing. It'll be something. Empty space cannot exist, because by existing, it is something, and thus not empty because something is there. Empty space is a crime against nature, against existence. 

I will defy any instance of nothing, every silence, every empty space. I will fill every table with knickknacks, cram every corner with trinkets, paper the blank walls with pin-ups and magazine pictures and calendar cut-outs and newspaper articles and cheap out-dated posters off the streets, running together in glorious visual noise and chaos. And yet, it'll be orderly, since everything will be placed in terms of height and subject, categorized in the way that a wild flower will grow unbothered on the lawn, unexpected yet planned to be so. 

My eyes hurt more now that I think about the mess that I will make. There is no space in my life for such things; my room is too small, my pocket too shallow. I can not afford to keep such organized chaos in my living area. And so, I have a picture on my wall, a nice view in a style that has never been very popular and thus a work of genius. It is my small, unnoticed way of rebellion, against the blind obedience of the people below. It is also my constant reminder that I am something different, as if I needed the reminder except for in the times of rare blackest despair that surrounds and swallows and never seems to stop. Sometimes it can take a simple thing to break a complicated cycle. The question is what, and whether mere mortals can ever wield such a thing. The main reason I keep any sort of people close, as close as I can bear, is that I want to see. I want to see what kind of person it takes to break something, to create something, to make a difference and change, whether it be small or great. I want to see it happen, but there are only so many people I can watch at one time without becoming disgusted at the weakness that is human nature. Humans are such fragile creatures, with so strong passions and desires and needs and confused minds. And yet, humans are so strong, so noble, and ever so stubborn, even as we march towards a fate that seems at times to be extinction. Humans are, from what I've seen, the only creature that is suicidal in great masses. It's easy to be noble when there's no chance of survival. 

I wonder again why I have housemates, when I keep them at such a distance. Some of them are interesting fellows, whom I am interested in seeing how they turn out. However, in a raid for them, the patrolmen will stumble across me and my existence, which is something their doctrine cannot ignore. It's easy to ignore me when I'm not in your line of sight. It's when you actually see me that you can't help but stare. I'm sort of that way. Some of my other housemates, ah well, some of them seemed to cry for a kind of help that no one else was willing to give, or have means to give. And for reason unexplained even to me, I reached my wings over to shelter the babe in my own nest. Maybe it's my way of doing penitence for what few sins I feel on my soul. I am not a religious person, but I feel the effects of the spirit quite enough. 

My housemates have long since stopped questioning my judgement about such things as pictures and sharing apartments. My reasons, they say, twist around their minds, bringing them full circle without saying anything, and yet makes no sense in a logical sort of way, but making every sense. Sometimes I don't even understand it. I merely accept what it is, and work on. 

Maybe I should describe my beloved fellows, whose lives are more real at times, than my own and who carry my trust with my true given name. They are not like saints, not like Marcy. Marcy was strong, strong and heavy with spirit and slim muscular body, a strong presence in any room with feet firmly on the ground, unmoving and imposing. It would take the force of a god to make Marcy move. Yet, Marcy was soft, kind, considerate, even when busy and half buried under books. That was Marcy. 

My housemates are their own characters. 

The first, whom I am thankful took the room on the other side of the apartment. She is a banshee. She is small, shinny thin despite her efforts and gorging and binging. She has a loud voice, and yells with no constraint, like she is making up for lost time in being silent for too long. Her voice is shrill, flat and occasionally off-key, and I have to wear headphones whenever she sings in the shower as she doubles the octave and blasts out her lungs. I wonder that she is not partially deaf already from her own voice. Actually, that would explain a few things... but she is a fighter, despite her protests that she is not strong enough to fight. In her fights, she wields a great axe and only stops to think after she's landed the blow. Then she stumbles over herself with her sorries, her apologizing a grating on the nerves, making one more irritated with the overload of guilt and regret and one tires with the whole situation. 

Then the second, the scientist who comes from a long line of religious service. To her, everything has a reason and must be explained. Even the slightest fact must be proven with a reliable source, with proper references. Common sense is a science and a faith, to prove the existence of the divine in the mutation of a virus and the details of the gene and in the presence of the atom. Her patience is arguable with her field of service, her straight face holy orders and great desire to learn more to help the misfortunate. I don't think I've actually asked her what she wants to do with her knowledge. She has spoken many times about a specific area she wants to specialize in, a goal she has, and she is very driven. Then, I don't talk to her, I watch and listen and try not to get in her way as I try not to let her get in my way. She has stumbled very close to the line, but never crossed. I would hate to remove someone who has been so close and whose company I have enjoyed. 

Now that I think, the screeching banshee has a goal too, which she pursues relentlessly. It is an admirable trait. Only myself and our bard in the apartment has goals (if you can count mine as a goal) that cannot be obtained by a sheet of framed paper. It is merely a stepping block to the greater quest, and our greater wandering. 

Which brings me to the last, the bard, who even now I can hear practicing in his room. He is strangely suspicious of most things, yet is the first to comfort with a warm mug of tea, as is his heritage. He is short, blond, and I suppose he is the best looking of us all living here, though he will modestly deny it. Truthfully, he is a pretty child, whose face, I suspect, makes his music jealous. He can be somewhat rude, when he thinks it is best to be blunt and straight forward. He is an honest soul, with a generous wallet. Often, I let him step forward and be spokesman for us living here. His goals take him towards being a public figure, so I think it good practice for him. I wish him good luck with his quest, as it takes him dangerously close to the abyss and the corruption that lies there.  


	5. Chapter 5

I must be completely honest with the good that has been done to this nation. There is good health and wealth for all people. For everyone, it is possible to live long and comfortable lives, with a secure job and steady pay, and enough money to afford the latest gadgets made available. In this place, there is a space and position for everyone to work together, if we just close our eyes to the outside world and ask no questions. 

However, it is the nature of some to ask questions, to seek knowledge and to look beyond boundaries. In these people are those with the ability and passion to help all people of all nations, regardless of their own situation. Other people refuse to be silent with injustice done to others and refuse to let things be left alone. It is these people who question and push for the betterment of all people, all nations in a belief of global unity. They refuse to be cowed, to be herded, to let the blindfold cover their eyes. They believe in the truth, in an agenda other than their own, and they are the ones targeted as they arise from the ranks of students in the universities. 

And then there are those like me. 

I took some of the prescribed pills for a while, to know the truth in swallowing the little white tablets of poison. It was a rush, when the drug entered my system, invading and filling, dominating. I could feel as my heart beat faster and yet it did not break. I felt the quickening in my blood, like liquid fire and my hands twitched like my nerves had gone bad. I had to consciously ease my breathing and take long deep breaths to help calm down while the rest of my mind, my brain, my body screamed to move, to act, to run, to hide. The world became real. The world became dull. It flickered back and forth between being painfully loud and fast and hurried and slow, dull, muted and stale. It was intense, it was dead. 

It was too distracting to my work, both officially and academically. I found myself driven to focus on obscure details distracted from things that really mattered. I swear that if I had continued it I would have been driven into one of those nicely padded rooms with the soft understanding nurses to make sure I don't bash my head against the wall and scratch my eyes out. No, they would help me into my jacket and cut my nails, giving me the medicine to make me slow, and then they would close and lock the door of the room with bars on the windows, making me safe from everyone outside and maybe safe for myself. 

Which is the point of the little white pills of poison I was taking. I stopped taking them because I prefer to fight my own invisible battles and be in control of my own reality, even when it twists into something strange. I would rather see with my eyes than someone else's, even if their words do not become false in my eyes. The world is, after all, both true and false. What one sees may only be true to that person, and may be something else to someone else. And so, what is true to someone, is false to another. People tend to see things through different eyes, even if they are looking at the same thing. This is a truth that the people here seem to have forgotten. 

I must stop my narration here, or break my oath of confidence and reveal the presence of previous others who would prefer not to have their existence acknowledged, not even in mine own thoughts. You cannot betray what you do not think about or know. Unfortunately, I know too much, so I am in danger of giving everything away. A good thing that I am not prone to remain fixed on one piece of knowledge for long. A mind-reader, I hazard to suggest, would have trouble at the mass of information found and brought out automatically about any given topic, regardless to its innocence. 

However, appearances are deceiving. The world is both true and false. What I see may not even exist to another's point of view, and the same vice versa. In fact, I may not exist. I may be a figment of someone's imagination who thinks is real. I could also be locked up in a room somewhere, giving lectures to monkeys. It's all in how one views the world. 

I see the world in various degrees of true and false, for even a lie can have a grain of truth. A good lie, after all, is always based on truth, distorted through the mirror of language and thought. I believe in the truth of all things, in the existence of meaning in all things. There are more than one language, more than one culture; should not the same be for the spirit and ultimate reality? 

But that's a tangent. I knew of a person named Button Face, a face as the name implies, that is as cute as a button. The tragedy of Button Face. Never have there been such a sweeter person, a kind gentle soul treated so harshly by the world. Had I been in Button Face's position, there would have been vengeance, there would have been brimstone and hellfire and the wrath that not even heaven can compare. The tragedy of Button Face, you see, is that Button Face was rejected from the world, ignored, bullied and beaten. Button Face was abandoned for having such a cute, unusual face. But also, I think, for having such a noble soul. No matter what, Button Face understood, no matter the pain inflected, the misery and horror, Button Face understood. Button Face understood in ways that I cannot, in the nature of human beings and how humans hurt and cry and vent. And Button Face forgave. 

I could not save Button Face from self sacrifice, not then. Not so long ago, before I raged and was blinded by myself. But I can save Marcy from vain self sacrifice, in repayment for the kindness, for the focus, for the waking. I can save. 

Before I can go too far, I am interrupted by previous promises, not the promise, but still a promise all the same. It is totally possible for someone such as myself to become caught looking too much within, and not spend equal time looking outward. So I made a promise. I have masks, and roles to perform.

The guys, my fellows, have called me out, promising me that I will not be long from my work. I wonder which work they mean. But I go with them, to play games on the big screen, causing crashes and collapsing buildings, chasing each other around a contained digital background. It is carnivalesque. 

Sometime during the night, I am challenged to a duel. It is some immature male pride, on both parts, and so I accept. I select my characters, ones which I am familiar with and that are a slight insult to my self proclaimed rival. He and his buddies sneer, taunting in order to save face. I and my own are silent, simply waiting. A few murmurs in the background crowd; there are a few bets. I ignore them. 

The battle begins. The controller is a little heavy as it lies lightly in my hands. I do not grip until my knuckles are white, I do not pound on the buttons. I have already recorded the strengths and weaknesses of my opponent's characters. His skill, however...

A character is a tool, to play a game, to get something done. Each tool has a purpose, made a certain way to be used in a certain manner. To get the most out of a tool, you treat it with respect for what it was made to do and you only use it in that way. It is disrespectful to use a tool too far away from its intended purpose. I choose my tool, my character, for a reason, in that I know its purpose and how to get the job done. Which is, to say, I know how to use my character. 

I'm afraid it takes more than some spirit-full pride and skill to win a duel against me. I must give credit where it is due; he did fight fiercely and refused to give up. His was a valiant effort, showing a brave face before defeat. So he has some of my respect. 

I still don't know how much was betted on me, but then I don't really care that much so I haven't made an effort to find out. Suddenly it all seems so pointless, that this path is going nowhere. I sigh and give up my controller to someone else more eager to play. I stand and watch, silently assessing and recording, and trying not to think too hard. 

I was promised, but what is a promise worth? It can easily be proven false, in any sort of events. I have no proof of the promise, due to my own steps in my security, not on the soft words of a prayer. What faith do I have, in a promise, in anything? If anyone who knows even one of my codenames confesses... god forbids! Should dear Marcy ever break, my promise could be for nought. 

Who promised me? I know of a few who cling, hope and blindly trust in such promises, but I have yet to hear of from whom. Who is powerful enough to make such promises, never mind being able to fulfill and keep such absurd things. 

Who? 


	6. Chapter 6

Scratch, scratch, the pen on the paper. There are a few more hunched over quickly bought notebooks this day in this class. I note their faces and the instruments they're using. To the observer, it is a simply temporary measure in response to technological failure. But I don't believe in coincidence and I can see them slowly slipping into the files of confirmed supporters from the list of potential candidates, a simple click and drag on a computer screen, an action done by remote. 

I carry electronical devices, this I'll easily admit. I carry a choice of ignorance and bliss of knowledge, of passing through unnoticed or writing my presence in the sky with lightening. I carry a few modest devices, a little one to screen out undesirable noise, another to contact others far away, another to help me add up calculations without counting on my fingers. That is all. 

Under the table, my belt gives a soft chime. I hush it, even though no one would hear. A glance out the window, just a passing glance, not the searching stare of a guilty hunted conscience, but the lazy bored glance of a student. There, just pulling up, an unmarked black car. 

It was too obvious. I almost sneered at it, which would give me away. I am promised because of the cautious actions I already do. My masks are secure, like a never-ending parade of faces, beginning from the day I was born and screamed into the world. But I saw them, the men in dark suits and shades, getting out of the car, calmly shutting the doors and walking towards the building. Out of the corner of my eye, as I looked up from writing notes, I watched them steadily approach. Only two of them, a team of partners. 

I idly wondered whether they had stopped that morning at a coffee shop or cafe for a bite to eat, a nice warm cup and a leisurely discussion on how to approach the day's catch. It's the sort of thing the movies show, which I know is not true but amuse myself wondering anyways. My wires, as it happens, records only the feeds of the mass authority, the patrolmen and officials. The agents are independent, I'm afraid, so I can only access the reports they faithfully submit, but cannot observer their movements of events. A frustrating challenge, for someone of my position. 

And now, two of them have entered my academic building as I sit here in class. It is a beautiful day full of the scent of frost. This morning I decided to closet my light jackets and coats for more fortified winter gear. I turned back to the understanding of abstract and concrete ideas, as we question and critize, a delicate balance of curiosity and ignorant agreement. To step over the line, to disagree too much, too loudly, too openly and too persistently is a sin against the government, the nation and the common good. 

We as students of such area of study are automatically screened as potential threats. We raise too many questions, too many conflicting thoughts that can upset the comfort of the average person. By seeking knowledge, we seek chaos. 

But only if we step outside the dusty library of the ivory tower. 

The agents were almost forgotten until I stepped outside the classroom and there they were, standing, waiting. There were, to my relief, no glossy photographs in their hands, be they gloved or not. I did not know whether the promise extended towards agents. 

However, they cut their way through the crowd and to my side. Each on a side, suddenly pinned in. One of them said my name, in a tone which could have been a question, but leaned towards a statement. Funny, an agent asking questions in an academic building. Was I who I am? No, I am not myself. I have a mask. No, I have an evil twin. Can I truly deny myself, and what I am? Yes, I am myself. 

A gentle touch at my elbow, an almost request for the others to hear. I can sense the steel under the velvet, the firm hand on my back. They lead my way out without actually looking at me, as I cling to the strap of my shoulder bag. While the patrolmen exist to ensure swift action upon day to day events, the agents work on more large scale troubles and investigations. Their presence at the schools is not totally uncommon for their exercise and research. However, the questioning of a student is one shared fear. 

By now, a less practiced mind would be racing towards assumptions and panicked conclusions that rise and spiral up to dreadful heights to plunge down into the fearful depths of the abyss. Which is to say, someone less confident than myself would be in a fit of nerves, but I have a part to play in all things, so I at least express some worried concern. Some of my fellows, less appointed leaders and colleagues, would not be able to handle this, I am sure. Being drawn aside by agents, for any innocent reason, is not a good thing for a leader of an activist movement. There is always fear of stepping too much over the line. I have no such fear.

Not that I do anything, honestly, other than provide classified and confidential information to other leaders in activist movements. You know, nothing really important. Internal laughter bouncing through my head reminds me that people do not have to be taken by patrolmen to disappear, and made it hard for me to keep an appropriate concerned looking face. I have nothing and everything to hide. 

They just take me to the parking lot, where it would be hard to overhear with everyone noticing, and we stood by the car. They wanted to ask me questions. Questions about what? I have enough questions with papers and essays and books piled high on my desk, never saying a word about the silent digital kind seeping through the cracks in wires and walls, to listen closely at every hushed word. There are a lot of questions in the world, and a lot of answers. 

“We are in charge of investigating Marcy,” they speak the name of the dead with such disrespect, I wanted to snap at them for pronouncing it wrong, “and your name came up.” They used my legal name, of course, to remind me of my legal face. They should have more respect for the dead. I'll make an illegal website, the best type there is, illegal and wandering the networks, an eternal memorial for the graceful saint Marcy. Untouchable Marcy. What would they want to know about mercy? 

Actually, they were quite polite, understanding. I suppose that they have to be; unlike patrolmen, there is no pretending at what agents do. They do their jobs. I do mine, but they don't know that. If they did, they wouldn't be here, exchanging pleasantries with me. I'd be in the car, politely escorted to my doom in a cell somewhere, with all the cups and pills and drugs to secure me in my cage and make me dream and rant. They wouldn't waste torture or death upon me. No, I'd be the useful mole in the ground, digging around, or the little bird to sing and leave nothing back. I'd be the secret smuggled into a nest of thieves, the one they know to root out the others. 

They want to know any contacts Marcy might have mentioned to me. No, we had an agreement that we would only discuss outward matters, like homework and what happened at the last protest. I don't care for things that disrupt my studies, and as an old friend, Marcy understood and accommodated my wishes. At least, to the world not relying on crackles and flashes of electricity. Basically, that was what they had come for, and the rest of the questions were meaningless. I watched them as they explained what a good person, a true citizen I was, helping them in their investigation against threats to the nation and the safety of the population. All that nonsense, and I watched their gestures. There are ways of communicating without speaking, with hands, palms and fingers and seemingly meaningless movements. A foreign language always seems to be meaningless poetry, which is a lie. Speaking, after all, is not communication, but a means of communication. And the two agents were talking to themselves over my head. 

Appearances are deceiving. They suspect something about me, I'm sure of it. Something in the way I answered, in the way I acted, confirmed or didn't seem right to them. They must! My answers were worthless, are worthless, for a report. No, they have to be investigating leads from Marcy's files. I wil not believe, though I have known the potential, of Marcy betraying me. These are just thorough agents, whatever they suspect. Oh gods, they suspect! And they said Marcy's name with disrespect. I can't keep quiet. 

"Marcy was non-violent," a simple slip of the tongue, is all it will take, to allow words to come flooding out. "How could Marcy be a threat? Marcy wanted to help; how is that bad?"

Those weren't my words, my voice coming from my throat, screaming from my lungs to echo off the buildings and vibrate in the air. It was coming from somewhere else, a clamour of voices in unison, of people marching in protest, swelling and growing closer. It came around the corner, a mass of angry students, questioning students, with signs and stereos and headbands and microphones. 

Now, I was curious; I hadn't heard about any of this and they looked well organized, even with media reporters and cameras at the sides, recording and broadcasting for all to see. Very well organized. How did I not know? I spotted Marcy's followers at the front. How did they keep it a secret from me, of all people? By word of mouth? In this day and age, with no electronic record anywhere. One fault of my system, is that it assumes that all conversations can be monitored, that there would be phone calls, no matter how quick and brief, that I could track. But if I can track, then reasonably, they can track as well. I was impressed. They must have done it all in person, which is quite a feat in this lazy society where electronics make things so much easier.

I also admire the reporters and camera crew, for they will lose their jobs for this. But they must be finally tired of bowing to restriction that kept them from advancing further. There is only so far that one can travel up the ladder of position and power without being trained from childhood in governmental special schools and being specially approved. Our leaders now are immune to corruption from outside impure and unclean sources, from threatening thoughts and dangerous questions. Our shepherds to these ill-tempered and rebelling sheep. They had spotted us, and began to march in our direction. The cameras and reporters noticed, and looked ahead. A camera, in my direction, recording my image, my face for all the world to see. 

 

As they came closer, I saw that the little light for a live feed was on, broadcasting directly to people's screens. The only way to get unedited and accurate recordings to the people, and thus no way for me to remove my face before it became a part of people's memories. I would save the rest of the feed before it and my face was erased from the official archives. But for now, the students were yelling, the reporters speaking quickly and loud into their microphones. I heard the cries of the protesters as they came like soldiers marching to war. 

"Look! Look! A questioning!" 

"Agents! An innocent!" 

"They look for evidence against Marcy and other brave people! The arrest is false! The accusations are false!" Someone was using me to further the cause. For me, this is an unexpected experience, to be in the spotlight instead of pulling strings in the shadows, to be evidence and proof. I half expected to be picked up suddenly and placed in an evidence bag, sealed and isolated and untouched to be examined and tested and brought to question in the court. 

But the protesters crowded in, to overwhelm the agents, put them on the spot, in the light under the cameras and grabbing demanding hands. At the same time, I was surrounded. They didn't touch, they didn't at all touch or threaten. They just crowded and surrounded, making short speeches into the cameras, waving signs and banners, chanting slogans, pressing close but not touching. No moves to be interpreted as violent, as the cameras recorded. Marcy would be proud. Marcy would be wondering why I was still there with my face pressed against the screens of news feeds, a publicity I never seek and avoid so cunningly. The cameras, a presence so simple, yet can make all the world watch themselves, what they say, what they do. It's amazing at the power in that little flashing light, silently announcing the watching eyes of the world, in a little status of 'live'. It is live when the media is our friend, without those in charge to edit the truth into their lies. It is freedom and it is salvation, but only as the authorities are not harmed. Only if they are distracted from what their people are doing. At that point, the live feed is cut, and the cage closes in, the curtain descends and locked in tight. 

But the LED light is still on, oh wondrous horrifying miracles, the live feed is still on. I had paused, letting the mask slip to make my expression of bewilderment and fear more real. It is also frightening, to have the outer feelings reflect with the inner side. It makes feeling all too real. I had paused, but now I move. 

I fling one hand, palm out, in front of my face, blocking any more clear shots of my features. My hand becomes a mask, hiding, hiding who I really am. We are so tired of hiding. My eyes remain, staring from behind my fingers, daring the lens. Move away or not; there shall be no more clear footage of me. 

I have been promised; my face shall not be held in patrolmen's gloved hands. With my own hands, I shall make sure of it, as faith is weak as pottery, can be pounded into dust yet can never be weak clay again. With my own hands, I doubt. 

Before the camera aimed at my face moves away, I reach behind me with the other arm. A hand to hide my face, another for my escape. In front of the eyes of the world, I disappeared. The camera only lingered for a few moments before moving on to another angle. The media loves watching our magic act, of suddenly disappearing on film, liking living metaphors of the dangers of not being silent. 

It is an easy trick that most of us know; it is the first thing taught to new supports when we meet for a protest. Sometimes we have a continuous line of people performing, so that the cameras don't get a good fix on any one's face, cannot follow any visual lead trying to single out all the leaders. It is our duty as leaders to show support to any protest operating in our area, so we attend every one. 

However, I see no other leaders in the crowd. This is not organized through the proper channels; we did not know about this. If asked (if ever), despite my own presence, we will deny any affiliation with the events. And the trick I just used is just for a mere individual, startled by the crowd and taking advantage of it to escape the clutches of the agents. 

I reached behind me with my free arm, and someone's hand grabbed my wrist, pulling me back. At the same time, the crowd behind me stepped around and forward, quickly and seamlessly filling the gap. As the agents looked around, trying not to appear on screen and attempting to wait out or have the crowd move along, I disappeared behind a screen of bodies. 

My saviour stayed with me as we pushed out of the crowd, into the looser less dense area where some of the back up cameras and crews stood nearby. Some of them turned to catch us on tape, but I turned my face, lowering my hat and spreading my hand to screen everything else. My saviour still held my hand, and we ran around the corner. If they had really wanted to, they could've kept up, but the action is where their pay is and they stayed. 

My saviour, a lovely person really, kindly asked whether I was okay, and of course what the agents had asked me. It was just questions, investigating the nature of Mercy, I replied. 

The nature of mercy is kind, gentle and forgiving even in injustice and when the world is unfair, my saviour replied, eyes sparkling and lips grinning. Soft, ever soft hair brushed against those lovely eyes and smooth cheeks, so clean and smooth. Those lips, I decided, must be sweet. But I did not speak. I simply smiled and agreed.  


	7. Chapter 7

O curse and bless that day! Sadly, I had to leave my dear sweet saviour and walk away alone. As I did, my saviour returned to the protest, satisfied that I was safe. I walked, taking out my little electronical device to talk to others. By now my housemates will have seen the news feed and have begun to worry about me, even though they know of our little magic trick. They are suspicious that one day it will work out badly and whisk me away to undesirable locations. 

It is a good thing that I am not named after patience. I finished as I reached the street, and as I tucked the little device away, a car appeared by my side. I should have known. Agents may work in separate pairs, or in teams of pairs. While it seemed that the two before were alone, they had backup. Of course, they wouldn't admit that they operated in groups or that they had seen the broadcast and were fulfilling emergency orders. It matters little; with the first agents exposed, these two would have to take on the case because of their immediate contact with the subject in question, being me. The first two would have to retire from exterior service, now that their faces have been publicly recorded. There is always the chance that someone, the wrong someone, will obtain copies, even if the official ones are destroyed. Not that they'll admit that I exist. 

But these two, they must have seen over the feeds. They asked whether I was alright, not hurt, not a mention of previous questions, nothing about Marcy. They didn't get out of the car. They did ask whether I'd like a ride home. These ones didn't suspect. The words defending Marcy died and faded to dust before ever reaching my lips. I politely declined the offer. If it had been a demand, if they were taking me in, they would have gotten out, flashing badges and insisting. Instead, they shrugged, honestly considerate people, and drove away after wishing me well. I walked to my usual bus stop without being bothered. 

I pulled out my devices, my communicator, and pressed the shortcut to access my system. I checked the recording feeds, seeing them being added to my illegal archive faithfully. I held the device between my hands, lifting it to my forehead like a holy symbol to my head in prayer. 

I used to go to protests before, but only with Marcy. Only Marcy could make the danger of chaos safe, calm the crowds and fill hearts with purpose. Otherwise it is only meaningless rabble and riot, not non-violent civil disobedience. The others may have wondered why I clinged to Marcy, why Marcy was the only one to bring me to the protests we all attended and why Marcy would stop any suggestion that I start my own group, be a leader in more than name. They don't understand, Marcy had explained, that my purpose, that my value does not lie in being a face in the crowd, a yelling voice amongst the millions. Marcy never mentioned how the mass and sweat and pressing bodies scare me. Marcy was too kind for that. But Marcy understood why I saw the protests as duties and not accomplishments or blows against authority, why I saw them as being allowed to behave in the carnivalesque. Marcy understood even when I did not entirely understand myself. 

I have never been one to raise my voice, not naturally or very intentionally. To do so attracts attention, and I prefer the shadows between light and dark, and even the spaces between shadows, where no one looks but shows everything. Perhaps that is why I do not like the crowds; they demand that I raise my voice, pump my fist and stomp and scream and loosen the leash on the animal, tempting it to come out with teeth and claws biting and scratching, flaring and raging, drawing blood and sweat and fear. It tempts me to reach inside that secret place and let go, to not be restrained or caged or penned in and trapped. But my beast is not one to rage against the mother sky and storm, to be trapped and tamed so easily. 

No, the crowd tempts nothing from me and everything from every one else. I feel no desire to raise my voice, my fist, against my beloved heavens, to rage and demand and make a bother of myself. I do not feel a part of the masses that swarm and rally and won't be still, won't be quiet. That's what scares me. It is something of a heavy enlightenment, a revelation that binds, more than the red tape around the world. I cannot participate in the protests, and so I make no efforts to hold my own. It is simply not my way.

But then, if that is not my way, what is? I may not feel unity with the masses, but I do feel the desire to rage, to protest and protect, to not be quiet despite the risks, despite the little white pills and padded prison cell that would await me of anyone and not anyone else. (Why ruin a beautiful brain with torture when it is still useful?) No, my way is here in the shadows, with my gathering and plotting and watching, always looking over shoulders. They cannot silence me by merely finding my messages and destroying them, by taking apart my code and rogue sites, ever pirating over the wires, by hunting down my programs hiding in their databases and computers, my eyes behind their cameras and my ear to their walls. My roots are dug too deep and too strong for them to pull out, to tangled to trace. I am a silent face, the enemy behind the lines. 

The enemy behind the lines, quiet, annoying but passive. In my file, I am the enemy. On every side, there is an enemy and the enemy is in front of your lines. Subvert, subvert. Mine is the rebellion on the wires, on the screens and across the nation, the right to speak our mind, ask our questions and be able to pursue the truth, be told the truth. Mine is the right to be considered, to have a say, to not be silent. Being quiet is not the same as being silent. Speech is only a method of communication and it is not the only one. 

I got on the bus, and rode home, not detouring as I usually do. My mind, instead of soaring with the clouds and dreaming of higher places, was in the here and now, plotting and purposefully designing. It feels good, to have a revelation that makes sense. There is no enlightenment, but rather the quickening pace of heart and blood finally put to a use that has meaning and design. No tatellying. With nary a word to my concerned housemates, I hurried to my work desk, sketches firmly planned in mind, hands itching for pen and paper, wires and welder, for keyboards and coding. I barely felt the hand on my arm, pulling me away and towards the living room, to the news feed. I barely heard the voices of my housemates as they chattered nervously, the voice of the anchorwomen on the screen and then cutting off. I did not see my housemates' faces in and out in front of my eyes and the lady on the screen as I saw coding streaming past, flying through the air on radio and over wires, to search and invade, to block and record and broadcast, to interrupt and proclaim and then the picture flashed onto the screen. Stop. A face. 

One of the video cameras at the protest carried photograph functions and was a better model than the rest. Must have been a good job to get it out on the field, else an undercover with a sense of pride for technology. Such a clean shot, a stunning face, wild angry eyes glaring from behind outspread fingers hiding the rest of the face underneath a hat, pitch black against pure white. So captivating, so demanding, and all too familiar. Save the eyes; I hardly glare at myself in the mirror. 

But my face, on the screen saying more than a thousand words, and with a start, I watch as unedited footage beings to replay from the protest I had left only moments before. I watch as the camera rounds a corner, following the crowd, and the direction of a gesturing arm to close in on the group in the parking lot, closing in on my face as it drew near. My face slowly fills the screen, eyes darting around at the circling people, frozen with shock and fear. Eyes suddenly snap to the audience, my hand flashing up and then my eyes burning, glaring and raging silently, and then gone. 

I blinked, suddenly awake to my housemates talking, of the anchors now on the screen, explaining that they were a pirate broadcasting feed, risking themselves to show the unedited truth. My housemates were jabbering about how the feed hasn't been declared treasonous yet, that they were somewhere safe, did I know where that safe place would be? No, better not to ask. But that was me on there, with the agents. What did the agents want? Was I in trouble? 

I simply ignored them; they would tire themselves out asking questions I wasn't about the answer. But instead, I laughed. Here, the début of an independent pirate activist broadcasting company, catching the face of the most dangerous enemy of the state and broadcasting it like a mascot for all the world to see. 

I had become a media celebrity. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

It is a strange humour that happens when my particular face is considered a media symbol. And at the same time, it is terrifying, at least for my housemates. Theirs is a unique relation and recent events makes their situation unclear. My security is practically metaphysical, after all, and if such a thing such as this can happen, what does it mean to the nature of events? 

My laughter was startling to them, unexpected to their expression of fear and concern. I shocked them into silence and they waited for the sacred moment to pass, a key marker in their memories to come. This is, I suppose, for them the beginning of cycled insanity, even though the symptoms of chaos was there for them to see, if only in passing glance. And then my laughter ceased, and I turned to my housemates, my chosen charges, and their reactions. 

The scientist, ever logic and rational, gave guessed ratios till the studio will be illegalized, hunted down and found. She wanted answers, wanted facts and figures and information. Her sharp mind measured the risks and dangers, to consequences to actions and carefully picked and examined each detail. Whatever did she want to know such things? For the knowledge itself, and how it may be used for improvement. She saw the consequences of my fame, my form of media attention, and wanted to prepare. It is tricky enough that I was questioned by agents, but the consequences of being caught on illegal camera... Bless her responsible soul, for all her annoying prying, she seeks the best of her position. Bless her, for the troublesome responsibility of the masses in their restricted state and struggle that she reminds me. 

The banshee wanted action, impulsive, quick and complete, feeling the urge to flee or fight, to strike and run, to move and stand strong and proud, yelling with rage and justice. She demanded immediate justice in action, heedless of the risk and consequence, selfless in sacrifice, and yet selfish to others. Consequences, responsibility, these extend only to duty, what should be done, regardless of rules and pain and suffering. She is action, brave and bold, with the blind stubbornness to fulfill tasks and overcome obstacles. The banshee is unshaken, undistracted strength. Ah, to have the confidence to stand tall and loud, demanding justice. She is the strength of the movement, for when such actions are needed. 

The bard is unity, between the voice of responsibility and consequence and the voice of action and justice. He suggests examination and reflection, explanation and thought, perhaps over a drink. He offers to reach into his cupboard to teas and wisdom, to draw out the knowledge of the ages, all gathered together and condensed into a wonderfully warm mug cupped between hands. There is something serene and calming about his manner, soothing the concerns of the others and easing their nervous energies. I am grateful for the bard's talents, as he directs their attention from myself so that I can consider their concerns. 

There is risk, with having any one of us drawing any sort of media attention, for it draws attention and investigation upon us all. The agents would not overlook the situation and tended to question more when such events did occur. We could expect more concentration in my investigation, and their eyes will turn to my housemates as they seek to find connections to the company, the illegal studio which as both rescued and doomed. It would be a test, then, as to the strength of my protection, my mother wings over my nest of hatchlings. I half look forward to the confrontation. Finally! A test to my skills, my plans and careful work! A challenge! As my blood quickens at the thought of something maybe happening, the voice of responsibility speaks, warning me of the risks. It is not just myself that I would place in the line of fire, with this manner. It is not just these housemates that I would risk. I refuse to hide behind them, for them to take the fall for my actions. 

And they are not ready for this. They cannot stand and break the current, the tide, for others who stand behind. No, they will stand behind the screen, safe in the faceless crowd. The defence will hold. I will not bring them into the spotlight, under the fold and dagger of leadership, the cloak of responsibility. Not without a promise, the strength and faith of the promise, to drive away the doubts and fight the fear that bubbles and seethes deep within, to emerge in sleepless anxious nights. 

No, I will not submit their remaining innocence. Let them stay safe under the protection of my promise and my shield. But they do have the right to know something, of the things that will not involve them, to answer their concerns. 

First, the banshee, who is easy to content. There shall be no marching, no more attention to question and no reason to look more closely. The time will come for open confrontation, but today is not it. Continue, the studies and simply life. 

Then, the scientist, the facts as they are and as they seem to be and happened: A simply investigation being interrupted by a surprise illegal protest. A detail; my use of a common escape on film. But such a skill can be easily taught, perhaps by Marcy when seeking some amusement to drive away boredom. Ah, the rage in my eyes, to whom was that directed? 

To the bard; continue the deception. We will continue to function as studious students, serious with our noses in our books and this attention an uninvited interruption that we will be happy to do without. The deception will continue. 

I have work to be done, in the meanwhile, If the studio will use my image to gain reputation, then I feel responsible for them. It is my image that is being used, after all, and while I approve of their bold independence, I will not have my face used unintelligently. It would interfere with my purpose. 

Is this concern that I am feeling? Is this worry and anxiety? What do I have to be concerned with? What decisions do I have to doubt? Not my own, I am aware and in control. What regrets do I have? I refuse to suffer regrets. So what is this that I feel for these poor foolish children, stumbling in their righteousness, their hands shaking with excitement as they light their candles, small flickering hope in the darkness. They are small, they are weak, alone. But together, as many, they are strong. 

And they have my image. I will not let them misuse it, or be foolish with it, despite their admirable boldness. A small update window has appeared on my screen, quietly reporting and recording, automatically copying secret files from far off places, transcribing and transporting, racing a clock countdown to deletion. Automatically, several backups are made, sent to safe secure locations and locked down on completely offline databases by means of my own automatons. Several of them, backups for backups for backups, hidden amongst countless endless code forever adapting and changing, ever running in lines and rows, marching past the eye towards some undefined end. The manifold mirror echoes eternally through time. 

But on this screen, the original point of the cycle, dutifully reporting to my eyes, instead of to my doubles, to join the records of my memory. May I never forget a record, even if this resemblance of life and lives disappears, let the knowledge remain. 

Ah! These are my new children, on that pirated news line, the stolen signal cutting in, disrupting law and order for their chaos. With their first broadcast, they have decided their fate in mine eyes. 

The authorities have acted quickly, gathering its fire and power to disapprove the untouched, bare and raw truth on the screens. They seek to hush and cover the silent screams and demanding stares, claiming set up and devious forces to corrupt ideals that result in massive suffering and ended halcyon days. By dull sublunary love, what hell would our proved peaceful nation face should to public trust the word of any and every source? I'm quite sure that the people have been impressed by the passion of our leaders, for feeling is to be closer to human nature than to think and design. 

It does not matter, the result is the same; the signal, broadcast and company is outlawed, for thinking and feeling too much out of line, for acting too much out of human nature. Heavens forbid we be too human! But these, these are mine, as they have claimed my image, my face, my rage, used it to dare the authority, even as a vague memory, to say something. They are brave, to take on the fear that hunts the nights and haunts the dreams, gnawing at the mind and sanity. By sheer guts, they have proven themselves to me. I will spread out my wings and enfold them, bringing them to my nest, my shelter. And my promise will extend to them.

To them, they have attracted my attention, as something bold that's needed. No, there shall be no other reason for my interest in them, for my protection. There shall be no connection between myself and my image. Let them be innocent and accept unquestioning in the gift they have been blessed with, for their sake and my own. Finding them, for someone as I, is too terribly simple. My dears, my sweets, I shall make you untraceable, yet visible, a ghost on the wires, a spirit on the net, spreading your wings from this outgrown broken shell. Ah, if I could spread my own wings towards the heavens, leaving the dust with a leap! These children will only hover in my shadow, but they believe otherwise, that they too will soar. Such are humans. The message has been sent, accepted and replied. Ah, they have heard of my fame, one of my names and reputations. Who are they to refuse my services?

I smile, a small mischious thing for a devious mind. A strike of a key, a quick correcting calculation, and the trace of the pirate signal sinks within a fog of complicated arrays and overlapping signals. At the same time, the broadcast begins to haunt the wires, appearing suddenly in random emails, forums and chat rooms. It defies filters and passwords and security systems, infiltrating, subverting, appearing and slipping away. And no one could be traced to my face. 

It would be bothersome to have my face connected to my services. No, it would be too dangerous, giving many another piece of the puzzle, one that I cannot afford, especially now with recent events. Unacceptable. 

Never let my face be held in patrolmen hands as they wait at the door as students exit. I am promised, I keep the promise, chanting it at night before I close my eyes and suddenly am falling through glass, cloud and water, shattering and never fully broken. Oh my beloved, how I wish you were here, and not merely a half forgotten memory in this half life of a dream. No one told us that we couldn't die, and so we wait for the final slumber. Or maybe this is a desperate dream from which I float like a specimen in a glass jar, forever frozen to be examined in my rest. Or maybe this is a cage, and I, a blinded prisoner unable to reach the bonds that cover my eyes, unable to scream my fury. 

Who promised me? Was that also a dream? What makes this dream less real than reality, less valid than the truth of life and nature. Shall I test it then? 


	9. Chapter 9

My classroom is in a building that is just classrooms, a large structure of windows, desks and chairs, white boards and aisles. Hallways of classrooms, for the march of students seeking to fill their brains with facts and figures, with answers to questions and the knowing looking and thoughts as they begin to realize what is written between the lines, unspoken in words and whispered on hushed intakes of breath. As the professor, an instructor in all his earned knowledge, repeats yet another already learned point, I gaze around from the back, higher than the rest and thus all seeing. My eye travels down to the faces, watching their reactions and sorting the thinkers from the poor pathetic sheep. The sheep are sheep, lost souls and dull minds, with maybe a spark of some clipped wings of genius, which just might be able to be fanned back into life. 

But the others, who hardly dare to think, to believe that they truly are thinking such ideas, and are determined to not indulge in them for much longer for surely their minds and soul will scream into insanity, to those pretty padded walls that still long to have me in their hands, to hold and keep safe. I know the feeling well, and as they regain something of their stability, I summon.

It bursts onto the screen, the white board, filling those ugly empty spaces on the walls and in their brains. 

“This is a pirated signal, reporting the unedited facts the government doesn't want you to know. We believe that the public and people have the right to know, like the true facts surrounding the arrest of...” I tune the rest out, since I more or less wrote the piece, offered them the information needed and created the program, sneaking it past the weak walls of the campus computer. I timed it well, as it blared on the speakers waking and fanning those sparks of flame and thought, the spirit of intellect and nature, the sense of right and wrong. The pirate anchorwoman states the facts, clear and concise, as images flipped from the projector, bouncing off the screen and burning into their memories. There is a murmur of voices, sweeping through the room, the building, the schools, rippling in harmony as classes suddenly stop and instructors stand baffled at the unlikely interruption. By statistics and my own calculations, this moment is the time when the most students are in class, whether paying the most attention or not. While I did not make it a primary function, I gave my program instructions that if it became possible to infiltrate other school systems, to do so. Much easier than going in each system and installing the program. I am lazy and this leads to less back doors to trace. I did, however, plant the program in a few other systems, so that it could not be tracked to my area. 

I did watch, and was pleased to see the broadcasting program spread to other neighbourhood systems, some private servers put on hold under the stress of demand. My program is not a virus, put that from your mind, for it does not seek infection, only function. If a computer crashes, it is not my program's fault that the computer was not adequate for its function. No, it's purpose is the broadcast, now staring at me as the report of lies marches by, ending with the image of eyes. 

Eyes, glaring and yelling, demanding and pleading. The eyes that seek out and speak without words, communicating beyond space and time, beyond body to strike and pierce the soul. Eyes, eyes, haunting eyes, expressing emotional, raw and wild eyes, catching and reflecting, the portrait and the mirror, so practical, physical and spiritual. And always watching. 

Eyes now take it in and it finishes, the program ending and deleting most of itself. Why waste a good thing? Copies beyond copies and clones, and the false emptiness descends, filling the silence as the observers, the students replay in shock and wonder. The classroom is a particular place. It is a neutral place of theory. Outside the classroom, lessons become applied and practical. Outside, this is dangerous, inside the classroom, this is theory. And the lesson replays, and replays, and replays in many memories, not soon to be forgotten.

I see a little fuel added to the small spark of flame. 

I like a good flame, flickering brightly like the strong soul of life, small in its birth, but fearsome in its potential. Humans are like fire, a small candle that under the right circumstances can become a roaring inferno, consuming and raging and leaving one homeless. A good flame brings me comfort, knowing that there is always some sort of hope in life. A good flame is life, and when it is done, I can look at the shape that remains, pick up the pieces and treasure them in my heart. Assuming that I have one. 

Ever wonder what people see when you walk past them? Ever wonder what they think about you, or whether you've made any sort of impact in their life? Ever wonder what it must be like to be god? Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, and the rest of the time I don't care with the desperate energy of denial. There is only one now; the river in Egypt is now a canal, ever so carefully controlled water running down cement walls into pipes and out into fields. How our ancestors would be appalled!

These events are thrilling! For once in a very long time, I feel like reaching into the world and acting, to touch, destroy and create. I feel the secret pride for my work. Who else is there that can accomplish this? Ah, but there is the danger. With this thought, this feeling and action, the world becomes a complicated mess. 

Feelings. The nature of humans is to feel too much, to experience too much. With this thundering in my heart, this lightening in my blood, filling my veins and ears, my love and fears are right there. Right there, standing just inside the door, reaching out to take hold of me and carry me away. A glance over my shoulder; how is it that they are able to hide so quickly and quietly, in this barren place?

I break character, to keep looking, to catch them before they reach me, the old game of tag. This is what it does, emotions. This is the mistake in becoming too involved, too emotional, too human. I must make repairs to this state, find my calm, my memory within dream. I will not let this human emotion to rattle and shatter my being. If I do not, there will be more to gather me up with chains and collars. So, I'll take the time on the tracks, metal rails and wires, to distract myself of humanity. While it does cause me anxiety, it does its job and I feel more refreshed. A small smile, I breath in the frosty air and imagine clean snow draped on the dull dead ground, the faded leaves and slippery black roads. It is chalk, painting the world into hibernation to rebirth. It would be good to curl up in blankets on a bed near the window, a good book and warm drink close to hand and cocoon in safe soft silence. A flickering candle on the table, a small box of matches nearby. It glows. 

A jolt and I am brought back to the dull wires and tracks of the public transport, felled from the sky as clouds being the seasonal march across the sun. The ride is now wearisome, the windows are now more walls. I start my walk back to the apartment, stopping every once in a while to watch others hurry past. I look for something that might not be seen, which might not be there, and perhaps I do not possess.  


	10. Chapter 10

Would they just shut up? Those idiots are there, with their textbooks out and open, notes spread around, and them talking and laughing. It is distracting! Horribly, criminally distracting and disrespectful to the students quietly sitting here, groups working together to finish essays and assignments, or studying for those marks that will allow them more control and constant surveillance. There are prices for genius in this world. 

I try to ignore them, their foolish tales of stupidity and arrogance, judgement and pride. But they're confrontational, and their words seek out my ears and penetrate my brain so I fidget and fuss over my neat notes. Every once in a while, I catch a snippet of conversation from across the lounge, and notice the petty concerns of the students here, their tales of social ritual and shallow self-confidence. 

I pull my hat more snug over my ears, readjusting my earbuds and cursing those who abandoned me here. Usually we meet here, to study as a group. With an active conversation around me, I am able to block the annoyances around me. However, with recent events, my group no longer wants to associate with each other. Without Marcy, we are strangers. Ah! Mercy! Mercy!

So now I am here, in my usual place, keeping up appearances, the mask and faces, and so now I am driven to distraction by the nature of humanity. Why is it that I seek to aid these poor disgraceful souls, with their petty unthinking lives and uncaring concerns? Why do I desire to save them from themselves?

Someone enters the lounge, the creak and squeal of hinges causing me to look up. Eyes meet eyes, and I recognise the newcomer. It is my saviour! The divine angel who saved me from the crowd. Beautiful gentle angel, walking towards me, eyes on my face, slight smile on warm soft lips. A graceful dodge around the couches and chairs, and my saviour is here. 

Is it me, or has my saviour quieted the fools? By entering the room, my saviour has reminded them that they are human, reminds them of their faults, and the state of their souls and guilt on their misused conscience. My saviour, who humbles the arrogance with angelic strength and perfection. Not even a word is said, and I am reminded why humans become so shallow, to distract themselves from their imperfect grief and troubled souls. It is their denial, that they are truly flawed, helpless and in desperation of their short bittersweet lives. Their denial and actions have my contempt; their situation holds my pity. My saviour grants me forgiveness. 

My saviour sits with me, as I flip through my pages, barely looking as I recite the information. Why am I here, it is asked, and I cannot deny my saviour any answer. There are more than one subject that one can study in a lounge, restaurant or street corner. Has my saviour seen me before? Yes, my saviour has, though looking from afar, as if afraid to get near. Am I a skittish creature, to be approached cautiously? My saviour has that sweet smile and warm glowing eyes. According to my saviour, I keep myself aloft, isolated, looking like I am about to run or bite. Ah! How close the description seems! Cautiously, cautiously, to approach and know. 

What is this truth that my saviour speaks, about wanting to approach me before that fateful day? And then, the unthinking action which forced my saviour into my presence, my sudden knowledge of my saviour's existence. Fate? There are no coincidences, only strings of acts and chains of events which mere mortals cannot understand. They are swept away in confusion until the dust settles and then in the aftermath, they understand. 

My saviour and I are discussing classes and courses, the army march of assignments and the attacks to defeat them. It is a neutral conversation, and I notice that my hands stop nervously shaking and I cease to stutter over my words. My saviour is soothing and gently tapping at my mask's shell, my outer defence. Curious, I let the mask slip a bit, to see the reaction of my saviour. 

No rejection, no sudden appliance of pressure to go further. Just a soft smile of gratefulness at what has been offered. My saviour, you do not force a wary creature, even at any level of trust. You give thanks for what has been allowed, you become familiar and wait for what will happen next. Ah! You understand so well, you might know me better than myself! Perhaps, dare I think, more than saintly Marcy?

What a fool I am, even amongst these even greater fools. This person before m is perfection that hardly any mortal can dare to compare. What type am I, mortal or creature, to be in any relation? Ah! A flaw! A move too quick! My saviour asks to meet, for a drink or a talk somewhere more personal. My apartment, to be exact. Oh, my saviour, despite all, that I cannot grant you. Had I my wings, I would give them up, blackened and fallen to this dusty hell, just for you, my beloved saviour. I would gladly fall into exile, just for you blessed smile. Why do you ask for this? No, I must deny you, for I will not contaminate you with the presence of my deceit, my hidden existence. You shall be pure of me, shall not come near my level of hunted lies and twisted masks. I will not let you be corrupted by me. 

The shell goes back up, and realization appears on my saviour's face. You cannot help it, can you? Forever, I shall keep you pure, despite your curious and forgiving nature. It seems cruel, I know, but it is better than the protection of my promise. My saviour, you must think that you acted too rashly, too forward for this skittish creature before you. Do you wonder whether you can redeem yourself? Quiet descends, and I glance around, somewhat surprised. The evening approaches, with its early darkness and whispering shadows. Outside, the air hints at more than just frost. The lounge is quiet, for many have left to seek food and other locations. Soon, I must do the same. 

Ah, my saviour, for your faults you are still my angel. Redemption, my beloved? You are my forgiveness. I give you this small token so that you know that not all is lost. Your serenity is recovered. Perhaps, another meeting, another time. Now, I must go. 

There has been too much close interaction for me. I must walk alone on the streets to regain my thoughts. The clouds are at a particular height tonight, low and thick enough to block the moon's glow. Light from the street lamps bounce back towards the shadows and dark empty places, seeking to illuminate the hidden. But shadows keep their secrets well, keeping the faces blank to the watching eyes in the corners and pressed up against the windowed glass. The air is cold, seeping into my lungs and freezing my nose. At times my breath threatens to get caught in my throat, to cough and leave me gasping. Tiny voices on the wind, breathless on my ears, whispering questions, accusations in young innocent voices. I pull my scarf closer towards my face. I hate the wet feeling of my breath on a scarf, so I do not wrap it around my face, over my nose and mouth. Instead I hold it close, to warm the incoming air and filter out unwanted poisonous smoke as it occasionally passed. 

The sky glows, and soft cold flakes begin to fall on the lifeless cement city and I find myself thinking of gods as Winter stretches out her cool embrace to cradle the world in her blanket. Snow brings me back to my memories of holidays no one dares to even mention anymore. Those holidays are crimes now, illegal to the government and law, illegal to the soul. Whoever would think that such simple and innocent securities could be so evil? But law states that it is, evil to the person, to equality. It is the freedom of the individual. Before, people worried over political correctness, not to offend and yet to still speak freely. Now, people do not have to worry, since the dividing lines no longer exist. There can be no other, for to do so is to offend, invite conflict and discontent. It is harmony, after all, even if it means that we are a people at war with ourselves, to always be watchful of our words, our actions, our expression, always concerned inward, to ignore the inferior warring outside nations. In return, we are truly free in true equality, a pure people. We are one people, of one mind and spirit. 

Those of us who know better, however, know where the other unspeakable practices are still held and the holy scriptures uttered in fluttering whispers and half-hushed tolls of the bells. As always, religion cannot be silenced; the earning of the soul cannot be bound by law. Once again, the nature of humanity is to misbehave, in society, in culture, in law and in soul. The nature of humanity is a double-sided blade, a double face of longing to have a place, and to rebel against the state. The mind of humanity is the only force that can make Heaven a Hell and Hell into Heaven. The old banished and banned words proclaiming the betterment of reigning in Hell than bowing head and feet in Heaven. This is how spirituality in this place has circumcised religion, castrated the soul and enslaved the mind into virtual bondage. 

Here, all cultures are one. There is no difference, yet no conflict because of it, no discontent over the injustice of differences. Poor souls who do not see the beauty in the unique. But dear children cannot mourn what they do not know and have never known. Ignorance is bliss. I have yet to be asked about the ancient practices that still appear in my memory. Oh, but I could complete the half complete fragments of memory and ritual that precious few cling to in their shadows granted gracefully to keep tolerance and hold hostage. It is unwise to take away everything, to leave nothing left to lose. It is the poisonous despair and strength-full courage of Moloch in the bowels of Hell after being cast out of a Paradise Lost. Ah, while the Fallen Angel rules Hell, the Almighty Almagest still watches and see all. 

For me to increase their knowledge of spiritual matters, to offer them enlightenment, would be crossing the line of tolerance and another mark to encourage my arrest. Delicate matter inspiration is, for me to walk the dangerous border in tolerance. I know I dance with dangerous steps and fearsome partners. I have frustrated them with my fleeting flirting, but as long as I make no direct strike against them, they will grudgingly suffer my presence, yet ever warning in our dance. I will not bring my sweet saviour into this, least my saviour stumble. Beloved saviour, I will not condemn you with my nature. 

Snow flakes dance from the great mother sky and I slow my feet to appreciate it more, to lengthen the moment. A sudden memory, the great grandfather clock in my parent's home, one winter holiday when it was unusually warm. I curled up in an armchair, peering over the back to stare at the ticking mechanical device, waiting for it to chime the hour. The antique had appeared in the period when I was away, gone to my faraway school to study in comfort uniform. A family construction, fitted with three tunes and rich lovingly created carvings. A piece of the family history, in this place I had once called home and now had begun to change once I stepped out the door until it has the air of a stranger in a little used room. Though warm, the air has been filtered thin until I shiver with cold. My room feels strange with my absence, having been unlived, with none of my presence after many spiritless cleanings and echoing emptiness. Appearances of maturity has denied me to paper the walls with posters but at least in the summer holidays I can fill space with the humming of computer engines and hang the colourful flags of symbolic prayer. It is a sad last of childhood, this old room which is both mine and familiar, and yet not. And then this clock, inherited from my grandfather's house, looking familiar and strange in this house that is just as much mine. 

Yet to escape the memory of those bounds to come back to the innocent dance of nature. It is calm, it is sweet. The heart in my chest is longing, thinking of fresh snow landing gentle on gorgeous eyelashes above sweet gentle eyes. I shake my head, and go inside to forget with a warm mug of drink. Too many old memories dance with the falling of the snow. Sometimes, I don't want to remember. Let them sleep, let them sleep.  


	11. Chapter 11

What does make a person evil? Murdering without remorse? Taking joy from cruel acts and the suffering of others? Is it simply the absence of good? What is good? What truly makes a person good? What makes a person real?

I think it was a dream, what I saw last night. Maybe some memory, from another time and place. I was dressed in black and silver, in lace and chains, shining metal and soft cloth. Sitting like a pretty doll on a couch not yet sticky with spil led drinks. I remember dimly thinking that anyone who saw me would surely not recognise me, dressed in such unusual manner. In my clever disguise, I watched people pass, with their reckless behaviour as they begin the nightly ritual of drowning the day in mild poisons. 

Lights flash from the dance floor, highlighting through the roofs of the building and cutting through the gloom. Before me on the table was a drink, hardly touched. Every once and a while, I do take a sip. Every once in a while, some one would sit on the couch next to me, talking nonsense. I was very agreeable, committing to nothing and refusing all invitations to dance. It was lovely lonesome, pleasure in being alone in a crowd. And then suddenly I wasn't alone anymore. 

A presence on the couch, the abrupt weight and I turned sharply at the deliberate motions of a sober person. My heart is in my throat, and how can this be a dream? My saviour was sitting next to me, not bothering to try talking normally over the music, the thundering movement of dance. The room did not grow lighter, did not brighten from its gloom, and yet I saw much clearer. My saviour leans in, and speaks, almost a whisper in my ear. My companions had gone off to the dance floor, the ones who would take me back to my usual false place. 

My saviour stands, and holds out a hand, inviting me. I politely refuse, but my saviour strongly insists. My saviour was going to dance, and wanted me to dance as well. How could I refuse? I gave my own hand and allowed myself to be pulled up and led towards the dance floor. Not knowing what to do with my other hand, I kept it close to my chest, nervously looking out at the mass of people. 

On the dance floor, we joined where my companions had taken over a corner, safety amongst strangers. My saviour wordlessly requested my other hand, taking my hesitation and gently leading through basic dance steps I never thought I knew. Awkwardly, nervously I follow my saviour, somewhat tripping over my own feet, causing my saviour to catch me and hold me close. I think my heart began to beat faster, but I couldn't be sure over the beating of the music. 

I look up and see my saviour's face, smiling gently at me. Suddenly, I am afraid, and let go, seeking desperately to escape. It was too intense, too real. I slip to the edge of the dance floor, at the edge of the crowd, and look back. Clear as day, beautiful and glorious, I see my saviour looking back at me. I advert my eyes, lower my head and attempt to lose myself among the people of this place. But in my mind, I cannot escape the stare of my saviour's eyes. 

My companions found me later, with another drink long gone and yet another in the process of being consumed. I giggled and laughed as they helped me out and into the car back home. They put me into my bed and I drift off to sleep. 

I woke up now, much later, by the sunlight filtering through my window shades. I lie here, peaceful for just a few long moments, and ponder what really happened last night. One thing for sure, from the faint ache in my limbs, is that I danced. When I finally get up, I put the clothes away, carefully to be washed and carefully to be folded and hung. Not a word from my housemates, and I wonder whether they're really there. The apartment is silent, empty of living warm bodies and breathing. I check the open doors, and find the rooms empty of people. I try to think, what would they be doing today, of all days, that they would leave me alone in the apartment. Walls are walls, and they make a cage. Perhaps the hatchlings have grown tired of the nest and have escaped from beneath my wings while I was vulnerable. 

I freeze at the thought, at the sudden realization. For a few hours, I was not myself, I was not aware. Instead, I was drifting in a drunken daze. I was vulnerable. It horrifies me, that I would allow myself to escape so far that I would make myself weak. How I wish it was a dream! 

Tick tick tick. The sound of many clocks in the banshee's room, counting down the seconds of time towards the fateful day when everything does not matter because everything will cease to exist. I dread that day from the depth of my heart and my entire being. 

Tick tick tick. Each second goes by, marching like towards the final destination, the final absolution, the only true certainty. It rises before me, growing terribly nearer, a great crimson-black dragon looming over, ready to pounce, devour and consume, gaping knife-filled mouth dripping acid on the paved stones of civilization. It is my doom. It is my fateful fall into oblivion and non-existence, to be wiped clean from records, books and memory. No legacy, no footprint in the sand to stand forever against the tide of time. 

Tick tick tick. Another few steps towards death. Ah, but to have at least one person, one monument to carry on even just my name, my memory, even as a mystery. In such a way, I would live on, for as long as I am remembered, I am still alive, I still exist. I am not dust on the wind, ashes poured into the sea, to join the mindless lifestream. 

Tick tick tick. I close the door to her room, shutting out the agonizing march of ages, the hammering of feet on concrete wearing down the world. Blissfully, it is quiet and I have the chance to forget my own anxiety. Quiet, quiet, lifelessly quiet, the pressing in of walls and air and things, crushing in on me. The spark that could be the animal inside my mind screams and claws at the bars of the cage. Inside my mind, there is no escape, and so it turns on itself, biting and scratching, bleeding and weeping. 

A cloth over the cage, the relieving dark descends, muffling the sounds within. Voices in the hall, coming up the stairs. My eyes snap open, piercing all-seeing through my fingers. I'm leaning against a wall, curled in on myself in a protective ball, head in my hands. The voices are right outside the door. From my place on the floor, I watch and listen as a key is fumbled into the lock, the bolt retracts and the knob turns. 

I can recognize the voices now, but I don't relax. Before my wide eyes, the door slowly opens, hinges creaking slightly on old oil. Inwardly, I wince, but continue to watch as my housemates return home. They're laughing and joking as they step through the door, and then stop nervously when they see me watching them from the floor. They are not alone. A stranger to these rooms enters, looks around with virgin eyes and sees me. For a few seconds, no body moves, no one thinks or feels. And then, I move. 

I scramble up and away, rushing into my room, my cell with the small window with changing plastic bars and rarely used lock. I close the door, turn the lock and wait for my heart to either stop or burst from my chest. It's too much for me to bear; my saviour in my lair! In this place, the evidence too clear and even stains the air! How could my saviour be here, in this place, my place?

In the other room, I hear the low murmurs of voices, resuming socialization and something resembling normality. I breath again. There is relief that I read in their tones, a slight nervousness in a tremor about to be smoothed out as the moment passes. The end has not arrived. I wait, in the while making myself presentable, fairly put together compared to the curled mess I was on the floor. Ah, there! The conversation is casual and I ease open the lock and door, peering out to see whether my presence is welcomed. 

I slip out, joining the conversation with a few comments and pretending that nothing happened. My housemates take the cue and pretend as well. I saw a flicker of confusion flash across my saviour's face, but then it was gone. My dear faithful mask is now in place, serving me well against the tremors in my heart. 

Somewhere in the conversation, I ask how my saviour came to come here. I learned that my saviour is a classmate of one of my housemates. They met on the street not too long ago, when my housemates went out for a few more supplies. They were somewhat worried when they could not wake me, but decided that it was best to let dreams run their course. For some reason, I was both upset and relieved. My presence in their shopping trip would have resulted in me denying any further contact with my saviour. However, I was also glad at the result of my absence. 

And then the conversation turns to recent events on campus. And my saviour says those words, those words that leave me stunned at the implications and speechless. 

“The reactions on campus are pleasing, with most of the student population in favour. The group reports a five percent increase in members and at least a ten percent rise in awareness. Very good results for our initial actions.” The figures are true, I know so. While not completely our own product, it is information that the Leaders are glad to use for our advantage. Every little bit helps, after all. “The pirate group was brilliant, our connections with them came at the right time, for them to break away and for us to announce ourselves. It is true individuality, without the oppression of any institution or large-scale organization.” 

I saw it, the eyes of my housemates flashing to me. The look in their eyes spoke for them, the urgent panic so well hidden. I saw the danger in which they brought my saviour here. My saviour was speaking too loud, too open, as if the small watching eyes were not there and the little ears not listening. So I speak up, suddenly, rebuke and anger on my tongue, dark concern in my eyes. It is foolishness for my saviour to be speaking like that, as if anywhere was safe, pretending that my place was not a haven. A secret haven that must not be known. My housemates are startled, but just at my first outburst and overcame it, agreeing with me. My saviour, heed my words, least you end up chained to a wall in the dungeon of some unmarked prison, never to been seen again, never to be remembered other than a brief fluttering of wings and dead leaves. 

In the face of my caution and concern (I dare not suggest protective love), my saviour laughs, and speaks words of revolution, of rising up against the injustice in the world, regardless of the consequences. My saviour believes that it is the duty of a citizen, that the people will listen and crowd and that my saviour will not be struck down. 

My saviour, you are arrogant with your pride. It will cause pain; do you care? Do you realize? You cannot see the tears, the weeping, the future mourning I see ahead of you in this path. Ah, right, my emotions are behind this mask you know is there, but do not try to pry. Right now, you do not care to see how I feel, you're distracted with your own foolish pride! Maybe it is your thick-skulled gender trapping you inside this stupidity. I must remember that not everyone are able to refuse the physical gender, to fully embrace the other, or none at all. Still, I thought my saviour to be above the flaws in gender. However, I remember that one must recognize all parts of one's being least parts of suppressed nature rears up an ugly monster, uncontrolled. Acceptance in all, and thus beyond it. I see now, the suppressed arrogance and blind male pride that once I had before I overcame my unbalance with my physical form. I see my saviour's internal struggle in the unconscious mind. But what will protect my saviour from the words coming from those strong lips? 

Would my saviour admit weakness and accept my aid, if I break my silence and all layers of my masks to protect my sweet saviour? How can my saviour be so confident as to speak out loud? If my saviour wishes to make any sort of difference, my saviour should be more careful with what is said in public recorded places. I tell my saviour, making a difference is better to keep a low profile, not to make oneself too big and too loud. Caution results in a longer existence outside of bars. It is better to be apart of a faceless crowd, pretending to be unremarkable. In the dark and secret places, the faceless becomes many, meets with more support from the larger mass. 

My saviour does not show whether my unspoken offer of support with the Leaders is heard. Anyone high enough in anything knows, even in name, of the Leaders, the spanning organization in the shadows of protest and discontent. Surely my saviour will see the wisdom of joining with the Leaders, with joining with me. Our rules seem like another form of coward li ness, but they are necessary for the survival of all. 

“I will not be disobedient merely in words, like frightened children hiding under security blankets at night. Secretive ways breed distrust, as seen from those we oppose. What change can happen of small ripples in the pond, going nowhere? None! Changes shall happen from strength, the bravery to speak loudly, in full numbers. Nothing can happen by hiding in shadows, gnawing at the edge and living in fear, awaiting the hand that plucks them away like bad fruit.” 

I recalled a saying of Marcy’s, from the time we first met, that the Promised are the Leaders, and are responsible for the ones without the safety of promise. “It is in us that they have faith, and we dare not lead them wrong,” Marcy had said when my mind was in a similar state. “For nothing will save them should the guns be turned on them, for then we cannot protect them.” The meaning, that I was left to figure out, is that there is nowhere to hide if a full purge was enacted due to the mass uprising. No one would be safe, perhaps not even the Promised ones. Unlike the heroes in our smuggled books, there is no way for us to gloriously revolt on a grand scale. Even at our best, getting all the supporters to act at once is too difficult. Even if we did, we would be outgunned and trapped in the walls of our cities, towns and suburbs. I may overcome the eyes, but the walls are also everywhere, dividing and conquering. The gate are ever-ready to close the cage. 

“Rally them, all of them at once.” Coward, my saviour is cruel in judgement. Our sacrifice wouldn’t save anyone, only condemn. 

“Not if in a crowd, not if everyone everywhere rises up. We cannot be ignored, cannot be brought down into knees. The might of the people is great, if they stopped clinging to shadows and shattered dreams, to rise up as one voice!” Indeed, the power of many is great. Not even the authority dares to underestimate the power of the ignorant masses, which is why already we are physically restrained with walls. It is not an easy task. Who will raise them? How would you reach across the nation to speak to everyone? 

“The pirate broadcast,” my saviour replies with simply wisdom. “They can reach everyone, the perfect voice of the resistance. There is no where that they cannot reach.” Yes, I programmed it to, even inside the places where I cannot walk, to reach the ears of those we offend. It is hoped that maybe our words will make sense to those poor conditioned souls. There are no secrets in that, we’d be immediately outmanoeuvred before we move. Wait, I see your plan, your clever little brain. It is possible to avoid those channels, the work of a masterpiece. Oh sweet saviour, what then?

“I will lead them, even if I must sacrifice myself for them. I will take the blame for their misbehaviour; I will save them, I promise.” My saviour, you will act out your name, make true the prophecy. Do you think of Marcy as a martyr, to show you the way? I see right through you; your arrogance and pride is a farce, it is your courage to keep you going forward. You see the path before you and are afraid. Poor child, you wish it otherwise. You look desperately for someone to save you.

You remind me of the beach, the rocky northern beach. A memory, not totally my own. A lost child, a search, rocky cliffs and jumbled houses perched over the edge to meet the waves, and curiously wandering beyond the sight of parents and around the bend. A lonely tattered house, leaning forwards, filled with ghosts and skeletons in the closets waiting to be discovered. A small frantic child, locked inside as the house creaked and groaned from too much age. Young eyes meet mine through the window, pleading and somehow knowing it in vain. The wind changes and pushes. My view is locked on the frightened doomed eyes as supports break and the living coffin tumbles down to spikes rocks and crashing waves. 

My poor, dear saviour, you remind me of that child in the dying house, knowing the end is near. The memory, I barely know, but my poor sweet saviour, I see you desperately hoping for a miracle. My only miracle is this, that under the security of my promise you’ll be as safe as myself. It requires hiding, secrets, and the coward li ness you abhor. You would not accept it if I did break every rule I enforce and offer it to you. Somehow, in an exchange of eyes, both of us know this. 

A hint, you know a small unconscious clue of my purpose. What is it that you want from me? Am I your miracle-worker, to accomplish your goals and dreams without the danger and risks? There is no value in that victory. Am I your safety net, your last resort between you and certain death? My saviour, I cannot save you. 

This is the path you’ve chosen. If you accept the only kind of safety I can offer, the kind you cannot bring yourself to accept, gentle saviour, you would contradict your ideals, your very self should you ever consider my aid. And so I will not even mention the soothing of you fears. I can only caution you not to move too hastily, least your bud be cut before full bloom. 

Ah, my saviour smiles so sweetly sad. Your expression is so mournful. I am sorry. Despite this, I wish you luck, that you’ll succeed. You are galliant in your farewell, ever polite. As much as I wish otherwise, I do not think that we will ever meet again.  


	12. Chapter 12

 

The hours that followed strings together to make days, and days into weeks and weeks into a resemblance of months, all of which I spent hardly leaving my room. As if in vigil, keeping an oath of silence, I drifted out only for the body’s necessaries. I watched, flipping through the streets eyes, watching as much as I could the movement of my saviour. 

I must admit, my saviour baffled and impressed me. There were times when I searched frantically for a single glimpse. Somehow my saviour had found the rare blind corners, even in the unseen cameras. After a while, I found them, the areas where I found my saviour leaving with some same few. I watched through the cameras in the surrounding areas, no doubt witnessing the meeting of my Saviour’s independent rebellion. 

It was most likely against my Saviour’s wishes, but I brought my hand into the matter. I turned my programs upon the archives, my clever brilliant creations that instantly recognise myself in any eyes and responds to my every command, be it a keystroke or a spoken keyword. The meetings of my Saviour will remain unnoticed, for as long as possible until the moment which action cannot be ignored. I did not try to learn the contents of the meeting; there is only so much that one can ask for forgiveness. I know it is very unlikely that I shall ever have the chance to ask, but I always keep some small flickering hope. However, it is still easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission. I upheld the last possible gift I could give my Saviour, my shadowry protection. I highly suspect that my Saviour realized what I was doing, having caught moments of a strange relieved and grateful expression on that sweet face, glancing briefly at my stolen eyes. 

My Saviour never sought me out, either to confront me or to thank me. In a way, it would have betrayed our separate paths, our purposes and characters. It would have jeapodized too much for the proper easing of mind, the work that we do and the peace in our relationship. 

I was also curious, for a different reason. I have no doubt that my Saviour was the actual organizer of the protest in Marcy’s name, that which led us to our meeting. It was my Saviour and not the old followers of Marcy that contacted the pirate broadcast, and lead them to successful splittering and eventually to my protective care. It was my Saviour’s mind that devised the system of non-technology that avoids detection, even from my eternal eyes. I watch, learning how it is done, tracing each member and the web of contacts. As my own research proved itself, I realized the strengths and weaknesses in my Saviour’s system. It is a system which can only work temporarily within a small area. Even with the clever arrangement of cells, it cannot last without the complete level of technological safety that I provide, consciously and subconsciously. My web of programs and fake A.I.s and recognition protocols spread across the nation. This is my promise. 

The flaw in my Saviour’s system is that without technological attention, eventually a mistake is made and someone is caught. Humans are humans, after all. They are not perfect in the physical plane. This is a double-bladed sword they hide behind. The safety in cells can be broken, and even if the leader is above human nature, the leader would be caught, if not driven into the temporary refudge of hiding. A criminal of such high profile would not be able to hide for long, only perhaps long enough to put their affairs in order and maybe sacrifice themselves for the other members. My Saviour would never be allowed the disgrace of flight or hiding. From the coincidental (I’m sure) snatches I catch, my Saviour’s plan is similar to what was said in my apartment. My Saviour plans for a mass rebellion, as large as possible throughout the nation and city-states. Somewhat surprised, I checked my network and confirmed the plan being produced on a grand scale, somehow passing undetected by my systems. 

My loyalties wavered. As one of the promised Leaders, as the eternal watcher, the guard-dog for the large organized movement, I had the responsibility to alert the others of such an event. Usually, one of us in the local area would contact the apparent leader of the rogue group, offer support and alliance. However, my own information stated that my Saviour already knows about us, and has already refused allies (myself, I feel, was tolerated for personal and private reasons). The two reactions for such a situation somewhat depends on how much the rogue leader knows. In the unlikely case that the leader proved to hold information that could jeapodize our security, we would act in similar terms that I was doing; protect without permission, a sort of blackmail and hostage on both parties. Otherwise, the rogue group would be offered to the authorities, with a carefully constructed anonymous tip that they know is ours but betrays only our colleagues in crime. It is the only shameful sin I can find in this, in the betrayal of others, no matter how much of it satisfies the authorities. Even the cowardness in hiding I can forgive, for it is necessary for survival. The sin of betrayal by choice, however, is a guilt to scar the soul. Such is our business, the matters of soul and mind. 

Except, I do not know how much my Saviour truly knows. And so, the true dilemma. Do I betray my Saviour to my fellows, thus proving my mistrust of my Saviour (oh blasphemy!) and to myself, but keep the order of my calling? Or do I betray my fellows, in consciousness and potientally compromise our security, but trust the latest urges, small and weak, of my heart and put my trust in my Saviour? This is true faith. What will prove to be my redemption? What will allow these tattered wings of mine to be healed, and allow me to soar once more through the air, the life-giving mother sky? 

How I miss my home. 

However, people and places have a habit of changing when one is not looking, distorting memories and making truth into lies. I am sure that the home I know no longer exists. Such is the nature of wind, water and world, and the price for turning my eyes to dust, becoming familiar with its evolving pattern. Is it a price that I will have to pay for eternity, to forever wander the world and sands of time with no home to call my own, to be permenantly lost? Or can it be repaid? Can I be redeemed and again be welcomed back with warm arms? What is the price of my redemption? My Saviour? Am I to abandon my Saviour, one love for another? Oh traitorous heart!

In the end, I am what I am, the silent watcher of the day and night, of both sides and stories, ugly and beauty. And so, I watch the gathering, prepared to admit failure, a flaw in my perfect design. How clever does one need to be, in order to out-think a genius? If there are no eyes to watch, no ears to hear, do words continue to be spoke and do actions still happen? A tree falling in an empty forest still makes sound, even if there are no witnesses. Later on, when all echoes of sound are gone, someone comes and finds the tree. Even if the cause is a mystery, it does not deny what has already happened. Even if I turn a blind eye, my Saviour is still there. 

A small thought, cold and heartless; should nothing else come from this, at least I have found a flaw in my program, ready to be corrected. I hesitate over the keyboard, suddenly reluctant to deprive my Saviour of secrecy. Correcting the error would lead me to be required to report of the gathering, but not doing so would leave me under questioning in the eyes of the Leaders, proving me to be human. A moment too late, and the decision is taken from my hands. 

The rush of the crowd, so complete and whole, swarming past my screens. I could almost feel the pressing of bodies, smell the sickly-sweet sweat in the air, hear the wordless muttering of voices. The reports start coming in, ever recording the rousing herd. I watch, counting heads in all numbers of towns and cities. There were so many, so breath-taking many. It wasn’t enough. 

A window above all others, the report of the authorities responding. More windows, as the soldiers arrive in position and the mobs drew near. Just at the point of collision, I close my eyes, my silent testament. I cannot, however, block out the sounds, the roaring of the crowd, the screaming of people and the explosion of guns and the splash of blood and wet flesh. I bow my head, as if in prayer for the poor souls slipping past, but what god would listen to the pleas of someone like me? 

A drop of water on my folded hands. I feel it dripping off my cheeks. How strange, am I crying? The tears have soaked my face, seeping out from the cracks in the multilayers of masks. I am crying, weeping as fate unfolds her wings and takes up her black shroud and wicked scythe. I see her stepping onto the field, delicate, graceful, and completely without remorse. There is only one truth in life, and that is its end. All people are equal in death. I pray a sinner’s prayer that at least she will be merciful. 

By all the laws of the old writers, the sky outside should be dark with my grief, raining down the passions of my tears. The sky should be black with my rage, with my sorrow and the horror re-enacted on my screen, the wind my wailing cries and lightening my flashing eyes. However, the weather is governed by laws far greater than the literature of mere mortals and rarely reflects the emotions of anyone. The clouds I see drift by, oblvious to the suffering tragedy below. 

I hide my eyes in my hands, for once failing to watch the passing history, for once deliberately failing to bear witness. This is my gift, my saviour; this is my silence. How many more will pay your price, your sacrifice? Mercy, my prayers are answered. Silence descends upon the blood splattered streets. It is over. 

Now I wonder, as I sit alone in my room, what is there for me to do? Consequences, there are consequences for all actions, for my small betrayal, for my silence, for my long mockery of life. There are consequences for the images in front of me, for the cooling body lain sprawled in the drying crimson pool. The spark of life has finally left the eyes and now they are unseeing mirrors staring at me. One of the thousands and thousands that spread out before me. There are consequences for the sacrifice. 

I cannot look away, their eyes still burned into the backs of my lids. Under their watch, I write up the report of their deaths, cold icy stares to accompany the lifeless last moments of their souls. The consequences are clear; there will be questions. I will be questioned. I hear them arising from the deep dark. I question myself. Why am I here? The answer returns, Beloved. Too vague. It’s not what they want. What am I doing here? Connecting my blood to the heart of the world. What does one do when one has sinned? What have I done? I have allowed fate to pass. Still too vague. I stepped to the side and watched. No, that is not correct. I attempt to delude myself. I did nothing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So alas, this is the last chapter I have finished. I don't know when I'm going to be working on this next. I have Starship Subject 392 on the brain, and I have another story I want to get up on here that has chunks needing editing. But I do hope to finish this soon. I would say that Paranoia is about 3/4 done. Roughly. There's not much more to go. But stay tuned!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In Which I get myself involved in a Murder Incident](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750909) by [UltimateProtagonistNerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateProtagonistNerd/pseuds/UltimateProtagonistNerd)




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